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COLLECTION 

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NORTH     CAROLIIVIANA 


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THE   LIFE 


OF 


MICAJAH  ANDERSON 


OF    EDGECOMBE    COUNTY. 


■^-■^^•^ 


BY       HIIVISELF 


-♦-•^^-♦- 


IJ'ritteji  from  Dictation, 

BY   BENJAJIIN   JOHNSON,'  COLORED. 


Ilk 


OF   LOGS  BO RO    TOWNSHIP 


"\  Tarboro.    N.   C.: 

J'ro/i/    )\'ni,  <^l .  JfeartKr"*-   "Prinihif/  and  'PtihiishtHfy  Moufc,  Jfahi  -sfveef. 

1870.     . 


.f 


4 


THE    LIFE 


OF 


MicAJAH  Anderson 


OF   EDGECOMBE   COUNTY. 


4   tm  ¥ 


BY      HIMSELF 


-^  am   ¥ 


Written  from  Dictation^ 

BY  BENJAMIN  JOHNSON,  COLORED, 

Of  LOGSBORO    TOWNSHIP. 


-♦■«^♦- 


Tarboro,   N.  C.: 

JTrom  )f'M,  i^i,  mat'ne't  IPt'inihif/  ami  ihibUehing  Mouse,  Main  6tt'eei,      . 

1870.  '^ 


INTRODUCTION. 


-4--^^-*- 


This  book  is  written  and  published  in  the  sixty-seventh  year  of  my 
age. 

In  giving  the  main  facts  and  incidents  relative  to  my  last  wife,  I  do 
so  in  a  spirit  of  regret,  rather  than  with  a  feeling  of  malice;  and  while 
I  cannot  hope  to  remove  or  lessen  the  great  sorrow  which  has  overtaken 
me  in  my  old  age,  I  trust  that  what  I  say  in  this  book  is  enough  to 
vindicate  me  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  and  justify  my  conduct  before 
men. 

The  Lord  has  spared  me  to  this  time  of  life,  and  for  his  goodness  and 
mercy  to  me,  I  feel  that  it  is  my  duty  to  give  to  the  world  some  record 
of  a  life  that  has  not  been  without  incident,  as  it  has  also  been  full  of 
trial  and  tribulation,  but  not  without  the  great  blessing  of  much 
pleasure,  and  a  share  of  worldly  prosperity  to  reward  my  many  days  of 
honest  toil.  Affection  has  been  mine  too,  for  I  have  known  the  love  of 
two  faithful  wives  and  twelve  children. 

I  have  long  felt  that  I  was  called  to  come  out  from  the  world  and 

believe  in  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and  I  now  feel  that  I  am  commanded 

to  do  this  work,  and  I  should  never  be  content  to  live,  or  die  satisfied  if 

I  did  not  perform  it  to  the  best  of  my  ability. 

L  So  in  a  spirit  of  Christian  love  I  enter  upon  this  task,  dedicating  my 

^work  to  all  such  as  fear  the  Lord  and  love  one  another. 

V  MICAJAH  ANDERSON. 

n3 


Edgecombe  County,  N.  C,  June,  1870. 


•    THLE  T^IFE 

OF  

MICAJAH    ANDERSON. 


-^  WAS  born  in  Edfi;e combe  county, 
October,  1803,  of  very  poor  and 
->)-•  humble  parents.  Indeed,  I  sup- 
pose I  came  into  the  world  as  poor  as 
any  one  who  ever  lived  in  it.  My 
first  recollection  of  my  mother  (my 
father  died  when  I  was  quite  young) 
was  that  she  was  toiling  day  and  night 
for  the  support  of  myself  and  broth- 
ers and  sisters,  of  which  there  were 
two  girls  older,  and  two  boys  and  a 
girl  younger  than  myself ;  and  the 
first  work  I  ever  did  was  on  the  spin- 
ning-wheel,  assisting  my  mother, 
"when  I  could  not  have  been  more  than 
five  or  six  years  old. 

One  day,  when  I  was  about   six 

or  seven  years  old,  my  mother  went 

out  to  carry  home  some  work  she 

had  done  for  a  neighbor,  leaving  me 

at  home  with  my  baby  brother,  who 

was  just  able  to  sit  alone.     We  were 

k  living  in  a  log  house  with  a  dirt  floor, 

^and  a  few  boards  across  the  joists 

^■diich  was  called  a  loft.     We  were 

^Both  crying  of  hunger,  as  we  had 

I  often  cried  before,  when  I  heard  a 

voice,  which  seemed  to  come  throuo^h 

the  opening   of  the  loft,  saying  : — 

*'Watch  the  world  and  strive,  and 

you  shall  live  !"     Startled  by  this 

unexpected  voice  in   so  strange    a 

place,  I  looked  up  to  see  if  there  was 


not  somebody  in  the  loft,  but  finding 
no  one,  my  young  heart  became  filled 
with  wonder,  and  as  young  as  I  was 
I  thought  it  must  be  the  voice  of  the 
Lord  God,  and  I  hushed  my  baby 
brother — and  from  that  day  I  bore 
my  lot  uncomplainingly,  and  became 
a  dutiful  child,  working  faithfully 
for  my  mother  until  I  was  twenty- 
one  years  old,  a  period  of  unceasing 
toil  with  me,  but  not  remarkable  for 
any  incident  worthy  of  mention 
here. 

On  the  twenty-first  day  of  Octo- 
ber, one  thousand  eight  hundred  and 
twenty-four,  I  became  twenty- one 
years  of  age,  and  on  the  night  of  the 
twenty- fifth,  following,  I  was  mar- 
ried to  my  first  wife,  Nancy  Newsom. 

At  this  time  I  had  not  so  much  as 
a  bed  of  my  own,  nor  anything  to  live 
on  only  as  I  earned  it,  but  we  both 
want  to  vfork,  and  we  lived  in  love, 
peace  and  prosperity  seventeen 
years,  three  months  and  ten  days, 
when  it  was  God's  will  to  part  us. 
My  earthly  substance  at  her  death 
was,  I  suppose,  about  two  thousand 
five  hundred  dollars,  that  we  had 
together  accumulated. 

About  two  years  before  the  death 
of  my  wife,  I  was  brought  to  see  my 
lost    condition,  and     to  know   that 


6 


THE  LIFE   OF  MICAJAII  AXBERSOK 


where  God  and  Christ  was,  I  could 
notgo.  This  disturbed  me  so  I  could 
take  no  rest,  and  I  thought  I  would 
try  and  pray,  but  it  appeared  to  me 
that  the  more  I  tried  to  pray  the 
worse  I  got,  and  in  September  that 
mv  wife  died  in  January,  following, 
I  lay  down  one  night  but  could 
not  close  my  eyes  in  sleep  for  fear 
that  I  should  never  wake  again.  I 
was  living  at  the  Avington  place  on 
Fishing  Creek,  and  on  the  occasion 
here  alluded  to,  my  wife  was  sitting 
up  before  the  fire.  Pretty  soon  after 
laying  down  I  heard  music  like  a 
fiddle  playing  up  stairs,  and  I 
thou'^ht  some  one  asked  me  who 
is  that  playing  the  fiddle,  and  I  re- 
plied that  it  was  James  Avington, 
and  immediately  I  saw  a  flame  of  fire 
in  the  east,  and  as  I  saw  it  I  jumped 
up  out  of  bed  and  ran  to  shut  the 
door  to  keep  the  fire  out  of  the  house. 
As  I  was  going  I  saw  four  men  com- 
ing down  stairs  but  I  did  not  know 
any  of  them  except  James  Avington, 
and  I  had  never  had  any  ac- 
quaintance with  him.  xis  I  reached 
the  door  my  wife  rose  from  the  fire 
place,  and  laying  hold  of  me,  asked 
what  was  the  matter  with  me,  I  re- 
plied nothing.  She  answered :  "Yes 
there  is,  and  has  been  for  some 
time,  and  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what 
it  is."  But  I  insisted  that  there  vras 
nothing:,  and  went  and  laid  down 
a<yain.  I  never  did  tell  her  what  I 
saw  and  felt  that  night,  and  she 
died  and  left  me  here  in  that  way, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  that  after  her 
death  I  was  worse,  for  I    was    as 


much  concerned  about  her  poor  soul 
as  my  own,  and  as  anxious  to  know 
what  had  become  of  her,  as  I  was  to 
know  what  would  become  of  me. 

About  ten  days  after  her  death  I 
was  taken  down  sick,  and  it  was 
thought  that  I  would  die  also,  and  I 
felt  that  if  I  did,  my  soul  would  be 
forever  lost,  and  it  appeared  to  me 
that  I  could  not  live  but  for  the 
beautiful  hymns  I  heard,  the  sweet- 
est sounds  I  had  ever  listened  to, 
and  which  gave  me  hope  that  there 
was  still  some  promise  for  me  some 
time  or  other,  and  so  I  recovered 

from  mv  sickness. 
1/ 

About  the  middle  of  Julv  of  the 
same  year  I  retired  one  night  pray- 
ing to  Almighty  God  to  show  me 
whether  my  wife  was  saved  or  not, 
and  I  was  carried  into  a  place  about 
a  half  acre  in  size  and  as  round  as  a 
drum,  and  1  appeared  to  be  shut  up 
in  this  dark  place  with  no  chance  of 
escape,  and  I  looked  and  beheld  my 
wife  in  a  beautiful  place,  seeming 
to  me  the  most  happy  state  of  exis- 
tence that  I  ever  saw  with  my  eyes, 
and  I  struggled  hard  to  make  my 
way  to  her,  and  I  thought  I  got 
near  enough  to  speak  to  her,  and  I 
said  "Nancy,  I  want  to  lay  my  hand 
on  your  pretty  head  ;"  but  she  an- 
swered, "you  can't  do  that,  'Cajah,' 
and  in  reply  to  my  question  why" 
not,  she  said  it  was  because  of  some 
of  my  misconduct  to  her  when  living. 
Immediately  a  door  leading  into 
this  beautiful  place  was  opened  and 
I  was  taken  in,  and  turning  to  my 
ricfht  1  went  straight  to  her,    and 


THE  LIFE   OF  MICAJAn  ANDERSON. 


laid  my  hand  on  her  head,  and  this 
was  the  happiest  moment  I  ever  ex- 
perienced in  my  life,  and  I  thought 
and  hoped  that  it  would  last  me  al- 
ways. But  since  that  time  it  has 
been  shown  to  me  that  I  was  not  to 
live  that  life  while  in  this  sinful  and 
wicked  world,  and  I  became  so  de- 
sirous of  living  that  life,  I  prayed 
to  the  Lord  both  night  and  day  that 
I  micjht  so  live  here  as  to  live  that 
life  hereafter. 

One  day  I  was  going  from  where 
I  live  to  the  plantation,  and  there 
came  a  voice  to  me  saying  that  I 
had  never  done  the  first  good  deed 
in  my  life.  This  was  a  most  dis- 
tressing time  to  me,  and  I  begged 
and  prayed  Almighty  God,  there,  to 
show  me  the  right  way  and  to  help 
me  do  what  was  right.  I  was  going 
on  from  my  house  about  a  month 
and  a  half  aftervrards,  and  another 
voice  seemed  to  come  to  me  that 
what  had  been  done  for  me  I  did 
not  do  myself,  and  that  I  need  not 
expect  to  live  in  this  world  as  though 
I  was  in  the  world  above,  for  I  could 
not ;  and  I  then  felt,  that  I  was  and 
profess  now  to  be,  an  old  hard-shell 
Baptist  at  heart ;  but  as  St.  Paul 
says  :  ''The  things  that  I  would  do,  I 
not,  and  the  things  that  1  would 
't  do,  that  I  do,  then  it  is  no  more  I 
tffat  do  it,  but  sin  that  is  in  the 
flesh." 

I  do  not  want  any  one  to  think  or 
say  that  I  write  this  to  hurt  the 
feelings  of  the  church,  or  the  feelings 
of  anyone,  but  I  do  this  to  shov/  the 
world   the  life  that  I  have    spent,. 


how  I  lived  two  years,  five  months 
and  seventeen  days,  up  to  the  time 
I  married  Harriet  Faithful,  my  se- 
cond wife. 

When  I  was  married  the  second 
time,  I  carried  my  wife  home,  and 
she  took  hold  of  the  same  end  of 
the  rope  that  my  first  wife  had 
turned  loose  by  death,  and  we  lived 
together  twenty  years,  five  months 
and  seventeen  days,  and  we  throve 
as  fast  as  two  house  pigs  put  up  to 
fatten. 

In  her  lifetime  we  often  talked 
together  about  our  future  state,  and 
I  would  ask  her  if  she  was  willing 
for  me  to  ofi'er  to  the  church,  and 
she  always  said  she  was,  and  she 
would  be  glad  if  it  was  the  will  of 
God  that  she  might  go  with  me, 
and  that  was  the  reason  that  I  never 
offered  in  her  lifetime,  for  I  lived  in 
hopes  that  she  would  come  sometime, 
but  she  died  and  never  did. 

At  the  death  of  my  second  wife  I 
suppose  I  was  worth  twenty  thou- 
sand dollars  in  money  and  other 
property.  I  make  this  statement  to 
show  what  she  and  I  did  in  her  life- 
time, and  in  the  time  of  her  life  we 
were,  including  ourselves,  twenty- 
seven  in  family.  She  was  the 
mother  of  nine  children,  seven  boys 
and  two  girls,  and  eight  of  them 
were  living  at  her  death,  which 
with  four  left  by  my  first  wife,  made 
twelve  living  children  to  me — eight 
sons  and  four  daughters.  Now  I 
have  five  livino;  sons  and  four  daugh- 
tors,  but  am  only  four  in  family.    I 


8 


TEE  LIFE   OF  MICAJAU  ANDEESOK 


they  are  gone  out  from  mc  to  fill 
their  places  in  the  world.  I  tried 
to  raise  them  to  knovr'  how  to  get 
their  living  hj  the  "sweat  of  their 
brow,"  according  to  the  laws  of 
their  maker,  for  this  is  the  way  I 
got  my  living,  for  no  man  or  woman 
has  ever  left  me  a  cent,  and  I  feel 
quite  certain  none  never  will.  I 
have  enough  to  last  me  as  long  as  I 
shall  live,  and  I  can  truly  say  that 
all  I  have  or  ever  had  given  to  me 
was  a  gift  from  Almighty  God, 
*'from  whom  all  blessings  flow." 

Four  months  after  the  death  of 
v>my  second  wife,  I  married  her  own 
cousin,  widow  of  Edward  Fountain 
— maiden  name  Mary  Eliza  Pittman. 
She  had  one  child,  a  girl,  named 
Mary  Williford  Fountain.  It  is  now 
six  years  since  I  last  married,  and 
althou2:h  I  have  been  married  three 
times,  I  have  had  but  two  wives,  for 
the  last  woman  I  married' never  has 
been  any  wife  to  me  at  all.  She 
was  the  worst  enemy,  and  most  bit- 
ter foe  to  me  I  have  ever  had  in  all 
the  days  of  my  life.  She  is  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Old  School  Baptist 
Church,  and  belongs  to  the  church 
at  Williams'  meeting  house. 

I  had  been  acquainted  with  her 
for  several  years,  knew  her  as  a 
member  of  the  church  and  regarded 
her  as  a  christian  woman,  so  I  went 
to  see  her.  thinkinn;  that  she  would 
make  a  good  wife  to  me,  and  I  told 
her  that  I  had  loved  her  as  a  chris- 
tian and  felt  that  I  vrould  love  her 
as  a  wife.  We  were  married,  and 
on  our  way  home  she  said  there  was 


j  one  request  she  had  to  make,  that  I 
never  would  prevent  her  from  going 

'  to  preaching.     I  assured  her  that  I 

I  never  would,  and  that  it  was  the 
very  last  thing  I  could  think  of  do- 
ing ;  further  told  her  that  I  hoped 
it  would  not  be  long  before  I  should 
go  into  the  church  with  her.  She 
Seemed  satisfied,  and  expressed  the 

I  hope  that  I  might  soon  become  a 

[  member. 

I      On  the  morning  of  the  sixth  day 
I  after  we  were  married,   I  went  into 
!  the  garden  to  prepare  a  place  for 
;  bedding  potatoes,  which  I  selected, 
I  and  by  the  time  we  had  got  it  ready 
breakfast  was  announced,  after  fin- 
ishing which  I  remarked  to  her  that 
i  I  had  put  some  eating   potatoes  in 
{  the    hill   with  the   plantings,    and 
wanted  her  and  the  children  to  come 
i  into   the  garden  and  pick  them  out 
;  and  take  care   of   them.     With  her 
little  girl  and  my  two  little  daugh- 
ters she  came  after  a  w^hile,  but  had 
not   been   there   long  before  I  had 
occasion  to  scold  the  boj's  at  work, 
both  white   and  black,  for  playing 
around    the   bed   and    idling  their 
time;  when  she   flew  into  a  nassion 
i  and  said  if  there  was  to  be  a  fuss  on 

['the  plantation  about  work,  she  would 
I  leave,  but  I  paid  no  attention  to  whj 
I  she  said,  and  went  on  to  comph 
my  work. 

When  she  first  came  to  my  houso^ 

she  told  my  two  little  girls  that  si 

vras  going  to  learn  them  to  card  and 

spin.     But    she  had  no   time  to  do 

1  so,  and  I  did  not  expect  her  to  do 

!  it,  but  her  daughter  was  old  enough 


THE  LIFE   OF  MICAJAU  ANDERSON. 


and  larire  cnou^li  to  learn  them  ; 
but  she  would  neither  work  herself 
or  show  the  others  how,  nor  her 
mother  never  tried  to  make  her  do 
anything.  One  day  I  reminded  my 
wife  that  she  had  promised  to  teach 
my  girls  how  to  work,  and  she  re- 
plied in  a  violent  fit  of  anger  that 
she  would  when  she  got  a  chance  ; 
and  so  for  a  month, and  better,things 
went  on,  and  I  named  to  her  again 
that  I  thought  she  was  going  to  put 
the  children  to  work,  and  that  I 
could  not  stand  their  idleness  any 
longer.  She  then  affirmed  that  the 
children  should  not  have  her  cards 
to  abuse  and  wear  out,  and  I  told 
her  there  were  some  cards  in  the 
press,  I  thought,  and  if  there  was 
not,  why  1  would  get  some,  and  then 
she  took  the  cards  and  set  my  oldg 
esu  daughter  to  spinning  and  her's 
to  cardinn;.  When  she  first  becran 
I  suppose  she  carded  about  one 
ounce  a  day,  and  from  that  she  got 
down  to  a  quill  a  day, and  from  that 
to  nothing. 

Finding  that  my  wife  would  do 
nothing  for  the  instruction  of  my 
little  girls,  but  en  the  contrary  en- 
couraged her  daughter  to  idleness, 
thereby  laying  a  bad  example 
for  my  children  whom  I  was  anxious 
should  be  raised  to  habits  of.  indus- 
try I  one  evenino;,  weisrhed  me 
out  two  ounces  of  cotton  and  that 
night  carded  it  myself.     The  next 


\ 


morning  I  took  the  rolls  to  the 
wheel,  fixed  one  on,  and  called  my 
little  girl  to  come  and  let  me  learn 
her  how  to  spin.     She  began  to  cry, 


but  I  hushed  her,  and  then  her  step- 
mother fell  into  one  of  her  violent 
fits  of  anger,  and  said  that  the  child 
would  not  be  put  on  in  this  way  if  her 
mother  had  lived,  that  putting  her 
to  work  this  way  would  not   have 
been  thought  of  in  her  life  time.     I 
'  reasoned  with  her  calmly  that  she 
ought  not  to  set  such  examples  be- 
:  fore   the    children,   that  she   knew 
^  they  ought  to  be  at  work,  and  that 
I  their  mother  had  several  months  ago 
I  spoken  to  William  Weeks  for  a  lit- 
I  t]e  wheel  for  them,  which  was  done 
at  her  death.     But  she  would  not 
hear   to  reason,  became  more  vio- 
lent and  declared  that  I  was  only 
pursuing  this  course  to  make  little 
of  her  before  the   children  and  the 
servants  on  the  place.     I  told  her  I 
did   it  that  mv  children  mi^ht  be 
taught  to  work,  and  that  as  no  one 
else  would  I  must  teach  them  my- 
self.    With    that  her  dauorhter  de- 

o 

clared  she  would  not  work,  that 
there  were  negroob  enough  on  the 
plantation  to  do  all  the  work  ; 
and  her  mother  ripped  out  that 
she  should  not  work,  that  she  did 
not  come  there  to  work  but  to  live 
a  fine  lady,  and  she  intended  that 
she  should  be  raised  one. 

From  anything  I  may  say  in  this 

book  of  another,   the  reader  must 

I  not  infer  that  I  claim  perfection  for 

I  myself.     On  the   contrary,  it   must 

i  be  remembered  that  I  have  been  a. 

bad  man — as  far  from  perfection  as 

it  was  possible  for  most  men  to  be, 

and  I  could  not  consent  to  speak  of 

I  the  faults  of  another,  without  mak- 


10 


THE  LIFE   OF  21LCAJAU  AXBEllHON. 


ing  full  acknowledgments  of  my 
own  short-comings.  And  I  also 
make  the  further  acknowledgement, 
that  in  the  differences  and  difficul- 
ties between  my  last  wife  and  my- 
self, I  was  often  as  much  in  fault  as 
she  was,  but  I  desired  to  do  right, 
and  tried  to  live  in  peace  and  har- 
mony Avith  her,  and  would  have 
done  so,  had  she  been  as  ready  to 
overlook  my  faults  as  I  was  to  ac- 
knowledge them ;  as  ready  to  own 
herself  in  the  wrong,  as  I  was  to  for- 
give her. 

And  I  owe  it  to  the  sacred  mem- 
ory of  my  two  first  companions  to 
say  here  that,  my  conduct,  often  in 
their  life-time,  was  enough  to  have 
tried  a  saint,  and  but  for  their  kind 
and  forgiving  natures,  under  the 
severest  trials  and  provocations,  I 
must  have  fallen,  long  ago,  beneath 
the  weight  of  wrongs  wrought  by 
my  own  hands  ;  and  in  recognizing 
the  sorrow  that  has  overtaken 
me  in  my  old  age,  the  hand  of  God 
laid  upon  me  for  the  offences  of  my 
earlier  years,  wdth  an  humble  and 
contrite  spirit,  I  acknowledge  His 
great  goodness.  His  perfect  justice 
and  loving  kindness  to  the  way- 
ward sinner,  among  whom,  as  St. 
Paul  says,  "  I  am  chief.  " 

God  grant  the  tears  of  grief  that 
water  eyes  already  dimmed  by  years, 
that  flow  from  a  heart  withered  by 
time  and  bowed  beneath  a  load  of 
sorrow,  may  atone  for  misspent 
years ;  and  may  my  afflictions  final- 
ly prove  my  salvation  ;  for  the  Lord 
is  good,  and  "  hath  no  pleasure  in 


the  death  of  him  that  dies.  "  And 
when  our  pilgrimage  on  earth  is 
ended,  may  we,  who  have  been  so 
rudely  separated  on  earth,  so  un- 
happily mated  in  this  life,  meet  in 
Heaven  to  share  the  joys  of  eternal 
life;  and  may  they  who  have  been 
so  ready  to  magnify  the  differences, 
and  widen  the  breach  between  my- 
self and  her  whom  I  solemnly  vowed 
to  love,  honor  and  protect,  find  that 
forgiveness  in  Heaven  which  I  shall 
leave  them  here.  For,  "  with  malice 
for  none  and  charity  for  all,  "  I 
shall  leave  this  world,  cherishing 
for  mankind  feelings  of  the  most 
perfect  love  and  friendship. 

The  next  night  I  weighed  me  out 
some  more  cotton,  and  went  in  one 
of  the  rooms  of  the  house  to  card  it, 
leavincr  her  in  the  other  room.   Pat- 

o 

rick  Lawrence  was  there  that  night, 
and  heard  everything  that  passed 
between  us.  Eliza  began  to  talk  in 
great  wrath,  and  said,  among  other 
things,  that  she  did  not  intend  to  re- 
main with  me  any  longer,  for  what  I 
was  then  doing  w^as  only  to  make 
little  of  her  ;  that  the  work  I  was 
about  would  not  pay  for  the  wear- 
ing out  of  my  breeches.  I  told  her 
that  if  I  wore  out  my  breeches,  they^ 
cost  her  nothing;  and  I  kept  oi 
until  I  had  carded  upwards  of  five^ 
pounds  of  cotton,  and  by  this  time 
the  oldest  of  the  tv>-o  girls  had 
learned  how,  and  I  then  told  her 
she  must  learn  her  sister  to  card  and 
spin,  which  she  did,  keeping  their 
woric  separate,  which  I  locked  up  to 
show  how  much  each  one  did.     In 


THE  LIFE    OF  MIC  AJAR  ANDERSON. 


11 


the  meantime,  Eliza's  daughter  was  |  and  when  he  was  killed  in  the  war, 
doing  nothing  but  idling  about,  |  he  had  by  both  of  his  wives  seven 
studying  to  make  mischief  between  '  children,  and  five  of  these,  with 
her  mother,  myself  and  the  rest  of   their  grandmother,  Mrs.  Pittman,  I 


the    family.     I    have    known    this 
daughter  to  misplace  some  article  of 


settled  on  my  premises  to  take  care 
of.     The  house  in  which  Mrs.  Pitt- 


her  own  or  her  mother's,  thimble  or  i  man  and  her  and  my  grandchildren 
scissors,  for  instance,  and  declare,  in  I  lived,  was  about  one  hundred  and 
the  most  innocent  yet  earnest  manner  fifty  yards  from  my  residence,  and 
that  they  were  lost,  or  that  some  ,  there  Eliza  spent  most  of  her  time, 
mem^ber  of  the  family  had  had  them,  :  preferring  the  company  of  her  step- 
and  after  pretending  to  look  every-  ;  mother  to  mine.  If  anyone  came  to 
where  in  the  most  anxious  manner  ■  visit  at  my  house,  Eliza  would  take 
imaginable,  and  after  making  all  the  |  them  to  Mrs.  Pittman's,  hardly  al- 
disturbance  she  could  in  this  way,  I  lowing  them  to  spend  any  time  at 
she  would  find  the  missing  article,  all  with  me,  and  if  she  did  not  re- 
when  she  and  her  mother  would  '  main  away  all  night,  she  would  re- 
both  declare  that  some  one  about  [  turn  home  at  a  late  hour,  going  to 
the  house  was  always  interfering  ■  bed  as  softly  as  she  could  ;  never 
with  their  work,  hiding  their  things  j  speaking  to  me  if  she  could  help  it. 
and  trying  to  tease  the  life  out  of  |  On  the  morninc;  succeedino;  these 
^^^^'^'  I  visits,    she  would   rise  early,   with 

When  I  would  be  called  off  from  one  of  her  fits  of  passion  on  her, 
home,  to  town  for  instance,  this  girl  and  you  might  hear  her  tongue  all 
was  busy  the  live  long  day  to  invent  I  over  the  plantation.  She  has  been 
some  story  to  tell  her  mother  !  heard  in  one  of  these  outbreaks  of 
against  my  return,  and  the  moment  anger  at  Mrs.  Lane's  which  is  more 
she  would  see  me  coming  home,  she  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  my 
would  run  to  her  mother  saying,  j  house,  and  she  scandalized  the 
"  mother,   papa    is  drunk  ;  papa  is  !  neighborhood,    and   alarmed   every 


drunk. 


moth 


er. 


body  with   the  tormenting  noise    of 


^    They  would  then  take  themselves  I  her  fiery  tongue. 

Both  off  to  old  aunt  Polly  Pittman's,  \      \  have  tried  to  talk   to  her,   and 

^ho  was  Eliza's  step-mother,  widow  j  prevail  on   her  to   control  her  tem- 


of  her  father,  and  there  they  would 
generally  remain  all  night,  telling 
everybody  they  saw,  that  I  was  at 
home  dead  drunk. 

My  son,  Micajah,  first  married  a 
daughter  of  this  Mrs.  Pittman,  but 
she  died,  and  he  was  married  again, 


per;  that  my  feelings  were  hurt  to 
the  shedding  of  tears  by  such  con- 
duct, and  that  I  could  not  stand  it; 
and  when  I  would  attempt  to  rea- 
son with  her  thus,  she  would  place 
her  hands  on  her  hips  and  walk  ofi', 
uttering    no    word    but     "  pshaw, 


12 


TEi:  LIFE   OF  MICAJAJI  AXDEBSOX. 


pshaw;  "  and  instead  of  trying  to 
improve,  she  seemed  to  get  many 
times  worse. 

At  my  meals  I  had  no  peace,  she 
was  forever  flinging  out  some  sharp 
words  at  meal  time,  to  wound  mv 
feelings,  make  me  mad,  and  keep 
me  away  from  the  table.  When, 
on  occasions  of  this  kind  I  reproved 
her,  the  best  I  knew  how,  and  vrith 
as  little  show  of  anger  as  possible, 
she  would  turn  her  back  on  me, 
lean  her  head  on  her  arms  up 
against  the  mantel  piece,  and  speak 
not  a  word  as  long  as  I  remained  in 
the  house,  but  the  moment  I  was 
gone,  she  would  begin  to  scold  and 
quarrel  after  me. 

One  day  after  dinner,  I  took  a 
seat  near  the  kitchen  door,  and  her 
daughter  came  and  sprung  on  the 
kitchen  door  and  slammed  the  milk 
house  door  four  times.  One  of  my 
grand-daughters  came  and  did  the 
same  thing,  when  I  remarked  to 
them,  it  was  a  pity  they  could  not 
break  it  down,  and  then  the  door 
would  be  already  open,  for  I  had 
never  seen  a  door  opened  and  shut 
so  much  in  my  life.  Eliza  hearing 
me,  came  to  the  door  and  said  she 
could  never  send  to  look  for  any- 
thing without  a  fuss  ;  and  I  repb'ed 
that  she  did  not  stay  at  home  long 
enough  to  look  for  anything. — 
Whereupon,  she  flew  up  and  said 
if  she  had  ever  eaten  any  stolen 
meat,  she  had  eaten  it  at  my  house. 
I  jumped  up,  angry  myself  now, 
and  went  into  the  kitchen,  and 
asked  her  if  she  had  ever  eaten  any 


stolen  meat,  or  anvthinc:  else  stolen 
at  my  house.  She  said  she  had 
not,  and  the  reason  she  spoke  as 
she  did,  was  because  some  one  had 
said  that  two  very  larse  hojrs  I  had 
were  stolen.  Had  she  intimated 
again  that  I  had  stolen  anything,  I 
will  confess  here,  that  I  should  have 
struck  her,  though  I  did  not  tlireaten 
anything  of  the  kind  on  the  occasion. 
After  this,  it  was  four  weeks  that  we 
never  spoke  to  each  other,  and  I 
never  intended  to  speak  again  un- 
less she  asked  my  pardon. 

This  was  about  the  second  week 
in  iSTovember,  and  she  and  her 
daufjhter  be^ran  to  carrv  her  thini^s 
to  Betsey  Pittman's,  unknown  to 
me,  but  I  found  out  what  they  were 
doing,  but  did  not  let  them  know 
that  I  suspected  anything  of  the 
kind.  One  morning  early,  after  a 
cold  rain  the  niofht  before,  she 
started  off  with  a  turn,  barefooted. 
After  going  about  a  quarter  of  a 
mile,  she  came  back,  and  went  into 
the  kitchen,  shivering  with  cold  and 
took  a  seat  before  the  fire.  The 
cook  told  her  that  she  would  kill 
herself;  and  she  replied  she  did  not 
care  if  she  did.  In  about  five  min- 
utes r>fter  she  had  thus  spoken,  they 
had  to  take  her  up  and  put  her  to 
bed.  I  was  sent  for  to  come  to  the 
house,  that  Eliza  was  dying,  and  I 
opened  my  mouth  to  tell  the  boy 
not  to  go  for  the  doctor,  but  let  her 
die,  but  my  conscience  rebuked  me, 
and  I  felt  that  I  ought  to  return 
good  for  evil,  and  I  sent  for  the 
doctor  in  great  haste.  In  the  mean- 


i 


THi:  Life  of  micajaji  axijFIison'. 


13 


time,  I  went  to  her  and  found  that 
she  was  as  cold  as  ice,  and  the  only 
way  I  could  discover  she  had  any 
life  in  her,  was  bj  placing  my  hand 
on    her    heart.     I    had    some  hot 


As  soon  MS  she  got  up  again, 
Charlotte  Pittman  asked  her  if  she 
was  going  to  leave.  She  said  she 
was  not  ;  that  I  had  asked  her  to 
forgive  me,  and  she  had   done  so, 


bricks  placed  around  her,  and  get-    and  I  had  forgiven  her.     But  this 

ting  some  brandy,  opened  her  mouth    did  not  last  long.     The  first  out- 

and  gave  her  about  half  of  a  large  |  break   after  our  reconciliation  was 

glass  full.      She    remained   speech-  j  about  «oap. 

less   and   insensible  for  some   time 

longer,  when  I  gave  her  some  more 

of  the  brandy,  and  in  a  little  while 

she    began    to    revive,   and  by  the 

time  the  doctor  got  there  she  could 

talk. 


o 


The  doctor  advised   me    to   con- 


When  I  first  carried  her  home,  I 
had  a  barrel,  holding  some  thirty- 
two  or  three  gallons,  that  had  been, 
as  was  my  custom  once  a  year, 
filled  with  soap  made  at  home. — 
But  by  lending  and  giving  as  she 
did,  the  soap  was  out  before  it  should 


tinue  giving  her  stimulants,  and  \  have  been  half  gone,  and  then  she 
left  some  medicine  for  her.  I  was  \  informed  me  of  the  fact  by  telling 
just  as  attentive  as  I  knew  how  to  j  me  that  I  must  get  some  concen- 
be,  and  she  felt  it,  for  in  helping  ,  trated  lye.  I  told  her  that  I  never 
her  to  turn  over  one  day,  she  threw  i  had    bought    any   soap   or    concen- 


her  arms  around  my  neck,  and 
begged  m^e  to  forgive  her.  I  told 
her  I  should  forgive  her,  but  I  could 


trated  lye,  and  never  should  ;  and 
if  the  soap  had  been  properly  taken 
care  of,  there   would  be  plenty  still 


\ 


not  forget  her;  and  I  asked  hereon  hand.  She  declared  that  our 
why  she  said  what  she  did  the  last ;  clothes  might  drop  off  us  then,  for 
time  we  had  spoken,  and  she  re-  !  she  would  not  wash  any  more  until 
plied  that  she  did  not  believe  that  I  I  got  some  soap  or  some  concen- 
had  stolen  anything,  but  that  she  trated  lye.  But  she  managed  to 
said  so  because  she  was  angry  at  wash  through  the  balance  of  the 
having  heard  that  I  accused  her  of  year,  when  I  had  ashes  prepared 
stealing  from  me.  I  assured  her  j  for  another  year's  supply  of  soap, 
that  I  never  had  thought  of  such  a  ■      Now,  my  wife  began  to  worry  me 


thing,  for  what  was  mine  was  hers, 
and  it  would  be  impossible  for  her 
to  steal  from  herself.  I  then  begged 
her  not  to  let  anything  so  unplea- 
sant take  place  between  us  again. 
She  said  it  should  not,  but  from 
that  day  we  would  live  as  a  dutiful 
and  loving  man  and  wife  should. 


by  the  mcinner  in  which  she  man- 
aged the  table.  When  anything 
was  cooked  she  would  select  the 
most  choice  pieces  of  whatever  was 
prepared,  and  lock  it  up  in  the  milk 
house,  and  neither  I  or  my  little 
girls  could  get  anything  out  of  there, 
but    her  daughter  could   go    when 


14 


TEE  LIFE    OF  MICAJAH  AXDEBSOX, 


and  as  often  as  she  pleased,  but  if  i  must  never  use  any  rails  of  mine 
mine  came  round  they  were  driven  j  again  that  came  on  his  land,  even  if 
off,  and  told  that  there  was  nothing    the   water  should    carry    off  every 


for  them.  Visitors  were  treated  to 
the  best  from  the  milk  house  or 
dairy,  but  me  and  my  children  were 
refused  everything  but  such  as  we 
could  get. 

None  of  the  negroes  were  fed 
from  the  kitchen  but  the  cook,  and 
she  was  given  or  took  just  what  she 
wanted.  She  had  a  son  living 
about  a  mile  from  my  house,  named 
Lewis  Hines,  the  same  that  was 
hung  in  Tarboro  last  January  for 
committing  a  rape  on  a  young  lady 
in    the    county.     He    came    to   my 


rail  he  had  on  his  plantation. 

My  wife,  Eliza,  was  Kcdding 
Pittman's  own  aunt,  and  when  I 
happened  to  mention  that  Redding 
had  taken  my  rails  and  left  me  with- 
out any,  and  I  thought  it  very 
mean  in  him,  she  bursted  out  that 
it  would  never  have  been  done,  had 
I  been  a  man  of  my  word  ;  and 
when  I  asked  what  she  meant,  she 
replied  that  I  did  not  let  Redding 
have  that  land  as  I  promised..  I 
admitted  that  I  did  not  let  him  have 
the  land,  because  he   did  not   come 


house  almost  every  night  with   his  ;  up  to  his  promise,   and  he  did  not 
tin  bucket  to  be  filled   with  provi-  \  come  to  me  about  it  afterwards  as  a 


sions,  and  when  his  mother  did  not 
have  anything  to  give  him,  he  would 
corae  up  to  the  yard  fence,  and 
Eliza  would  go  out  to  him  and  tak- 
ing his  bucket  to  the  milk  house, 
fill  and  return  it  to  him.  I  after- 
wards learned  that  the  year, before 
he  lived  so  near  me,  lie  used  to  come 


man  should.  He  approached  me  on 
the  streets  of  Tarboro,  in  company 
with  his  cousin  Joseph  Pittman,  but 
I  did  not  consider  that  he  had  com- 
plied with  the  contract,  nor  did  I  be- 
lieve he  would,  so  I  refused  to  have 
anything  to  do  further  in  the  mat- 
ter, for  which  he  abused  me  very 
with    his    bucket  from   Mr.    David  i  much. 

BuUuck's,  but  at  the  time  all  this  |  WhenEliza  found  that  I  would 
was  going  on  I  had  no  idea  of  such  j  not  let  Redding  have  the  land,  she 
a  thing.  I  began  to  kick  up  a  great  dust. — 

During    a    heavy   freshet  in  the  ;  She  said    her   first  husband   was  a    i 
creek,  considerable  of  my  fence  was  |  sm.art  man,  and  a  man  of  his  word,    " 
washed   away,  and  the    rails    were    and  so  was  her  father.     She  went 
carried  on  the  land  of  Betsey  Pitt-    on  in  this  way  at  great  length,  until 

I  ordered  her  to  shut  up,  and  went 
and  laid  down,  as  it  was  getting  late 
in  the  night,  but  she  kept  on  in  her 
usual  style  for  sometime.  After 
awhile  she  came  to  bed,  but  had 
scarcely    laid     down,     before     she 


man,  and  her  son.  Redding,  took 
my  rails  out  of  his  field,  and  used 
them  on  his  own  fence.  I  knew  the 
rails  when  I  saw  them,  for  they 
were  new  ones.  I  saw  him  about 
the    matter,  and   told  him  that  he 


THE  LIFE   OF  MICAJAIi  A  XI) ER 8  OX. 


15 


opened  on  me  again  bj  saying  she 
and  hers,  had  never  stole  a  pocket 
handkerchief,  and  I  said  to  her,  in 
great  anger,  I  admit,  that  if  she  did 
not  stop  going  on  in  that  way,  I 
should  certainly  punish  her,  and  as 
I  moved  on  the  bed,  she  jumped 
out,  declaring  that  I  had  struck  her. 
I  asked  her  then  if  she,  ever  knew 
me  or  mine  to  steal  a  handkerchief, 
and  she  replied  it  had  been  done  ; 
and  upon  further  questioning,  she 
said  that  one  of  my  little  girls  had 
stolen  Betsey  Pittman's  handker- 
chief. 

Upon  inquiry,  I  ascertained  that 
my  little  girl  had  found  a  handker- 
chief belonging  to  some  one,  and 
put  it  in  a  pocket  of  one  of  her 
dresses  that  hung  up  in  her  room; 
that  she  told  her  step-mother  about 
it,  and  Betsey  Pittman  afterwards 
claimed  it. 

Some  time  before  this,  I  discov- 
ered that  some  one  had  been  going 
in  my  chest,  and  I  could  not  account 
for  it,  as  I  had  the  keys  in  my 
pocket.  I  then  counted  my  money, 
which  I  kept  in  there.  One  Satur- 
day morning,  I  returned  from  feed- 
ing my  hcgs,  and  found  Eliza  and 
her  daughter  gone  to  preaching  at 
William's  meeting  house,  and  going 
to  my  chest  found  it  unlocked,  and 
taking  out  my  pocketbook,  I  found 
that  one  five  dollar  note  was  miss- 
ing. I  could  not  think  how  this 
was,  for  I  always  carried  the  keys 
in  my  pocket,  and  it  occurred  tome 
that  there  were  a  great  many  small 
keys  about  the  house,  and  that  some 


of  the  children  had  got  one  that 
fitted  to  the  lock,  bui  I  could  find 
no  key  anywhere  that  would  open 
the  chest.  I  remembered  that  Eliza 
had  lately  been  to  the  store  and  got 
a  new  trunk,  and  I  went  to  the 
trunk  and  with  my  chest  key,  un- 
locked it.  I  locked  the  trunk  again, 
and  said  nothing  about  my  discov- 
ery. I  thought  I  vrould  hold  the 
knowled2;e  I  had  o;ained  over  Eliza 
as  a  sort  of  check  to  her  conduct,  if 
I  found  it  necessary  to  mention  it, 
but  I  wished  to  keep  the  matter  a, 
secret,  never  to  go  beyond  us  two. 
So  when  she  began  to  accuse  my 
child  of  stealing,  I  asked  her  who  it 
was  that  went  into  my  chest  and 
took  out  five  dollars  of  my  money. 
She  stoutly  denied  any  knowledge  , 
of  the  circumstance,  and  affirmed 
that  it  was  neither  she  nor  hers.  I 
told  her  that  I  was  not  so  sure  about 
that,  and  here  the  matter  ended  for 
that  night ;  and  I  indulged  the  hope 
that  I  should  have  peace  and  quiet 
at  home  thereafter. 

But  the  next  day,  as  I  was  box- 
ing up  some  meat  I  had  promised 
Eider  Robert  Hart,  Betsey  Pitt- 
man  with  Joe  Pittman's  wife,  I 
think, came  to  my  house,  and  walked 
into  the  kitchen  where  Eliza  was. 
I  could  not  understand  what  Eliza 
was  saying  in  the  conversation  they 
carried  on,  but  I  distinctly  heard 
Betsey  say,  "  Lord,  aunt  Eliza,  how 
do  you  stand  it  ?  " 

Dinner  was  pretty  soon  an- 
nounced, and  I  was  called  to  go  in, 
but  I  did  not  go,   for  my  heart  and 


16 


THE  LIFE  OF  MICAJAJI  AXLEESOK 


stomach  was  full  enough  without  line  about  the  size  of  a  man's  fin- 
eating  dinner.  ger,  and  she  looked  rather  frighten- 
After  a  little,  Betsey  and  Joe's  i  ed,  but  I  told  her  not  to  be  scared, 
wife  came  out  in  the  yard  where  I  ^oi"  I  ^^^  not  mean  to  hurt  a  hair  on 
was,  and  asked  me  how  I  did.  I  j  lier  head.  There  was  a  pole  resting 
told  them  I  did  not  do  welL  That  1  in  some  forks  in  the  yard,  and  over 
I  was  not  so  well  in  body,  and  my  |  this  1  threw  the  rope  telling  her  to 
mind  was  terribly  upset,  for  her  come  where  I  wa?,  but  she  would 
aunt  Eliza's  conduct  was  such  that  |  not,  and  I  went  to  her,  and  holding 
I  should  never  bo  able  to  live  with  1  one  end  of  the  rope  in  my  hands, 
her  ;  that  we  should  be  bound  to  \  the  other  I  dropped  on  the  ground, 
part.  They  both  went  back  into  j  asking  her  as  I  did  so  to  pick  it  up, 
the  kitchen  where  Elisa  was,  and  \  ^vhich  she  did.  Then  1  told  her  to 
having  finished  my  work,  I  took  a  pull,  saying  :  *'  You  know,  Eliza, 
seat  at  the  foot  of  an  oak  in  the  \  that  if  we  put  this  rope  over  any- 
yard.  Soon  after  Betsey  and  her  ,  thing  and  pull  upon  it,  after  awhile, 
aunt  Eliza  came  out  to  where  I  was,  |  it  vriU  wear  in   two    and   drop    us 


and  Betsey  said,    '^  Mr.  Anderson, 


down.     The  end  I  have  is  the  part 


what  are  you  going  to  do  with  aunt    you  ought  to  have  hold  of  and  pull 

Eliza  ?  "     I  replied  that  I    should  !  ^ith  me.  " 

try  to  live  with  her  the  balance  of  i      She  then  told  me  she  was  coming 

the  year  if  I  could,  after   which   I ;  for  her  things  in  the  morning,  and 

should  put  her  into   a  house  off  to  j  I  promised  her  I  would  carry  them 

herself,  or  I  proposed  to    do    so. —  ;  for  her,  and  the  next  morning  she 

Eliza  spoke  up  and  said  she  could    came  sure  enough. 

get  her  a  place,  and  asked  me  if  1 1      ^^^^^,^  beginning  to  move,  I  said 


would  move  her  things.  I  answered 
her  that  I  would.  Betsey  Pittman 
and  Joe's  wife,  or  whoever  it  was, 
then  went  off  home,  and  Eliza  went 
witb  them. 


to  her  that  I  wanted  her  trunk  key 
a  moment,  and  she  gave  it  to  me. — - 
I  took  it,  and  going  with  her  to  my 
chest,  I  put  the  trunk  key  into  my 


lock,  and  unlocked  it,  the  same  a& 
She  remained  away  twelve  or  !  ^y  own  key,  but  it  would  not  lock 
thirteen  days,  when  she  returned  again.  I  said,  you  see  that,  don't 
and  sent  for  me  down  in  the  plan-  you.  She  said  she  knew  it  was  not 
tation.  When  I  got  to  the  house,  |  her  child,  for  she  never  let  her  have 
I  found  her  sitting  down  between  \  the  key,  which  was  not  the  truth,  as 
the  two  houses,  and  when  I  spoke  ,  i  knew,  and  she  was  well  aware 
to  her  she  snapped  me  up,  and  ap-  !  that  I  knew  it    too,  for   ever    since 


peared  to  be  very  mad,  but  said  she 
had  got  her  a  place. 

I  then  went  and  got  me  a  small 


she  had  been  at  my  house,  the 
daughter  had  keys  and  everything 
else  she  wanted,    and   did   as   she 


THE  LIFE  OF  MICAJAII  AXDEF.SOJ'r, 


17 


pleased  with  everything,   and  went 
when  and  where  she  pleased.     For, 


It  seemed  sinful  to  me  then,   to 
bear  malice,  and  I  felt  that  I  never 


although  not  more  than  nine  years    could  come  to  strike   a  woman,  so  I 
old    when     I    married    Eliza,    the    made  up  my  mind  to  go  and  see  her 


daun;hter  had  always  been  ahead  of 
the  mother  and  had  to  be  mistress 


brother,  for  I  could  take  no  rest  of 
m}-  life,  under  such  a  load  of  trouble. 


she  said  so,  and  whatever  she  said 
she  must  have,  she  had,- 


and  master  of  the  plantation  when    I  got  ud  to   the  door  without  beino- 

seen  hj  anyone;  and  I  thought  they 
all  appeared  frightened  Avhen   they 

The  morning  I  moved  her  to  her  '  saw  me  so  suddenly  at  the  door. 

brother's,  Wesley  Pittnian,    I   sent    I  spoke  to  Mrs.  Pittman,  and  asked 
some  support  for   her,   »nd  thought    her  to  come  out   to  me  a   moment, 


I  would  continue  to  feed  her,  but  a 
second  thought  took  me,  that  I 
would  be  doing  wrong  to  make  my 


motherless  children  work  for  another  !  Elira 


and  not  be  afraid,  for  I  did  not 
come  there  to  hurt  anyone,  but  to- 
talk    quietly    and    peacefully   with 


and  she  doing  neither  they  or  my- 
self any  good,  and  after  she  found 
thai  I  y»'ould  do  nothins:  more  for 
her,    she  boasted   that    she    would 


Vv'hen  I  looked  in  at  the  door 
again,  Elisa  y,'as  gone.  I  asked  the 
girls  where  she  was,  and  they  said 
they   did  not  know — that  she  had 


make  me  do  it,  and  she  actually  be-  !  j'JSt  that  minute  stepped  out.    Going 
lieved  she  could  compel  me  by  law  I  to  the  other  door,  I  saw  Eliza  going 


to  support  her.  I  wrote  her  that  I 
should  not  give  her  any  further  sup- 
plies so  long  as  she  remained  away 
from  me  ;  that  when  she  had  eaten 
what  I  had  given  her,  she  would 
have  eaten  the  last  provisions  of 
mine  she  ever  would,  unless  she 
came  home  to  live. 

In  the  letter  of  reply,  she  stated 
that  she  was  entitled  to  a  support 
from  me,  and  she  w^ould  make  me 
support  her.  This  made  me  so  mad 
that  I  determined  to  go  over  to  her 
brothers  and  whip  her,  and  I  got  as 


down  a  lane,  towards  the  woods.  I 
called  after  her  to  come  back  ;  that 
I  did  not  v/ant  to  hurt  a  hair  of  her 
head,  but  I  had  eome  to  talk  with 
her.  She  turned  'round  and  came- 
back,  and  as  she  walked  up  to  the 
door,  I  called  her  hj  name,  and  told 
hei;  never  to  turn  her  back  on  me 
again;  that  when  she  did,  she  turned 
her  b:ick  on  the  best  friend  she  ever 
had,  except  her  poor  old  father.  I 
told  her  if  she  was  what  she  pro- 
fessed to  be,  and  I  what  I  had  hope 
to  believe  I  was,  I  knew  we   could 


far   as  my  daughter's,  Lucy  Pitt-    '^ive  together,    and  I  wanted  her  to- 
man, who  married  another  brother    g^  »3fick  home  with  me,   and  let  u& 


of  Eliza's.  Lucy  persuaded  me  not 
to  go  about  her — to  let  her  alone  ; 
and  she  knew  quite  as  much  about 
Eliza  and  her  child  as  I  did. 


try  to  live  the  way  we  ought  to  live 
the  fe\^  days  we  had  on  ecrth,  in 
peace  and  happiness,  as  man  and 
wife  should. 


18 


THE  LIFE   OF^ICAJAU  AXLERSOX. 


She    answered  that  if  she   went  '  had  no   time  for   such   work,   there 
back,  it  would  be  the  same  case  over  \  ^vere  children  enough  on  the  place 

f     +1.^  .i^,,-i  1.  ,.1  r>,,^,,^v.f  „o  i  to  do  it  ;  and  you  know  I  have  often 
asain,  tor  the  devil  had  broujzht  us  '  ^  j 


together  ;  and  I  said,  on  my  part  he 
did  not.     Then  she  went  on  to  say 


told  you  if  3"ou  could  not  churn,  to 

pour  the   milk  in  a  trough  for  the 

^,    ^  •      ,1  11^.  AA  '  do^irs  and  thereby  save  bread, 

that  no  woman  in   the  world  coind        °  -^ 

Buit  me  ;  that  I  was  always  going  I  ^  S'-^i^  to  her  then  let  bygones  be 
on  about  her  wastefalness.  Then  I  ^Jgo^es,  and  now  I  want  you  to  go 
told  her  that  if  she  would  hear  to  ;  ^^o^^ig  ^^^  ^^T  to  listen  to  me,  and 
me,  I  would  go  to  the  smoke  house  j  ^^^^^  things  I  tell  you  to  go  by,  go 
and  barn  myself,  and  then  there  '  ^7  ^^^^^'  ^^'^  ^^^'s  both  see  if  we 
would  be  no\vastefulness,  and  no  :  can't  both  do  better  hereafter, 
room  for  any  dissatisfaction  on  that        i  then  left  for  home,  saying  what 


score.  She  then  charged  that  I  had 
ruined  the  character  of  her  child. — 
I  reasoned  that  I  had  not — that  if 


day  I  would  be  there  again,  and  I 
wanted  her  brother  to  be  at  home. 
I  went  at  the   appointed   time,   and 


ruined  at  all,  it  had  teen  done  be-  j  going  with  her  brother  and  his  wife 
fore  I  had  anything  to  do  with  her,  j  into  the  house  where  Eliza  was  I 
for,  assheknew,  I  daresn't  speakto  '  told  her  howd'ye,  and  asked  her 
or  correct  her  in  anything  from  the  !  bow^  she  came  on.  I  told  them  all 
day  she  came  to  my  house;  that  if  I  I  wanted  to  give  them  a  history  of 
reproached  her,  she  would  fly  into  a  \  my  life,  and  what  I  had  experienced, 
passion,  and  thus  she  had  always  \  I  hoped  the  Lord  had  done  for  my 
upheld  the  child  in  everything,  poor  soul  ;  and  I  said  pray  for  me 
whether  right  or  wrong.  all  of  you  ;  and  if  you  see  any  wrong 

I  said  to  her  you  have  not  treated  |  in  what  I  have  done,  please  let  me 
me  with  proper  respect — not  with  i  know  it.  I  then  gave  in  my  experi- 
the  respect  you  have  shown  the  ne-    ence   to    them ;    and    after   getting 


groes  on   the    plantation  ;   for  you 
know  I   don't  drink  sweet  milk,*but 


through,  I  asked  them  for  the  Lord's 
sake,  if  you  see  any  wrong  in  it,  let 


I  love   butter  milk  just  as  well  as    me  knoAV  it,  and  straighten  me  if  I 


anything  I  can  get  hold   of,  and  I 
have  not  had   any  this  whole  year 


am   wron-g.     AYesley    and  his    wife 
both  said  they  saw  no  wrong;  and  I 


but  twice,  for  instead  of  your  churn-  |  said  to  Eliza,  if  you  are  what  you 
ing  the  milk,  you  gave  it  to  Betty,  profess  to  be,  and  I  am  what  I  pro- 
and  it  was  carried  down  among  the  fess  to  be,  I  know  we  can  live  to- 
negroes,  and  what  they  could  not '  gether,  because  we  are  both  one, 
drink  was  given  to  the  hogs.  She  just  like  Christ  Jesas ;  and  she 
said  she  had  no  time  to  churn,  was  agreed  to  go  back  home  again  ;  and 
the  reason  she  had  never  done  any  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  loved  her  ten 
more  of  it.     I  said  if  you  found  you  i  times  better  than  I  ever  had  loved 


THE  LIFE    OF  MICAJAII  AXBEBSOy'. 


19 


her  in  my  life.  IVIj  love  fcr  her 
was  so  great  I  could  not  help  kiss- 
ing her  on  the  spot. 

I  sent  for  her,  and  she  came  back 
home,  and  I  says  to  her,  now, 
Eliza,  I  want  you  to  take  my  ad- 
vice and  not  2:0  to  flvinor  into  those 
pets,  when  I  go  to  say  anything  to 
}'0u  or  I  speak  to  your  child  to  cor- 
rect her,  for  I  don't  do  it  out  of  any 
harm  to  the  child,  but  for  her  own 
good,  and  your  benefit,  as  well  as 
mine. 

She  spoke  and  said  she  would  not, 
and  she  knew  she  had  done  wrono-, 
for  she  never  suffered  so  much  trou- 
ble before  in  her  life  as  she  had 
since  she  had  left  me.  I  told  her 
she  had  not  suffered  a  grain  more 
than  I,  for  I  had  been  suffering  a 
long  time  before  she  left  me. 

And  I  said,  now,   Eliza,  I'll  tell 
you  what  I  wish  you  to  do.     I  have 
got  a  cook  hired  here  for  you.     Let 
her  do  your  cooking,  washing  and 
scouring,  and  you  have  nothing   to 
do  but  give  out  provisions   and   at- 
tend to  things  about  the  house,  for 
cooking  and    washing  is    something 
you  never  done  for  yourself  or   the 
rest  of  the  family,  and  I  want  you 
to  take  your   sewing  and  come  and 
sit  with  me  under  the  oaks,  where  I 
can  see  you  and  talk  with  you  ;  and 
she  said  she  would.     I  said  to  ber,  I 
hoped  and  trusted   in  the  Almighty  ! 
God  that  it  would  never  be  the  case 
again   that  she  would  turn  her  back 
on  me,  for  to  me  it  always  seemed 
the  most  sinful  thing  in  the  world  \ 
for  a  man  and  his  wife  to  come  to- 


gether and  then  have  to  part,  be- 
cause they  are  then  not  only   apart 
in  this  Avorld  but  in   the  world  to 
come,    for    in    the   world   to  come, 
where  God  and  Christ  is,  they  can- 
not meet  to   dwell  together.     She 
said    to  me   it  should  never  be  the 
case  again  ;  and  she  took  her  chair 
and  went  and  sat  under  the  oaks 
with  me  every  chance  she  could  get. 
And  poor  old  aunt   Polly  Pittman, 
she  would  come  down  there  and  sit 
witii  us  and  talk  with  us  and  hear 
us  talk,  and  she  seemed  to  be  just 
as  glad  of  our  being  together  again, 
and  as  happy  with  us  as  she   could 
be,  for  it  seemed  to  me  she  loved  to 
hear  us  talk,     I   believe    the  poor 
old  woman  was  a  christian  woman, 
and  is,  I  hope,  this  day  in   Heaven 
at  rest.     Just  before  she   died,  she 
desired  to  hear  preaching,  and  Jor- 
dan Johnson,  he  came  to  my  house 
and  preached,  and  that  day  she  gave 
in  her  experience  to  him   and  some 
other  members  of  the   church   who 
were  present. 

Just  before  that  time  Eliza  had 
got  into  one  of  her  tantrums,  and  the 
old  lady  must  have  died  very  much 
dissatisfied  about  it,  from  the  con- 
versation she  had  with  me,  for  she 
had  heard  the  promises  Eliza  made 
me,  some  of  which  I  will  repeat. 

I  told  her  that  I  would  give  her 
the  same  chance  that  I  had  given 
my  two  poor  wives  before  her ;  that 
she  might  have  all  the  butter  she 
made  ;  all  the  chickens  she  raised, 
and  all  the  tallow  that  came  out  of 
the  cattle  we  killed,  except  so  much 


20 


TRE  LIFE  OF  MICAJJJI  AXDEFSOX. 


of  each  as  was  necessary  for  our  own 
family  purposes.  At  the  same  time 
I  observed  to  her  that,  being  a  wo- 
man, I  supposed  she  had  feeling 
enough  to  give  a  portion  of  these 
things  to  mj  poor  little  children, 
and  she  remarked  that  she  would  do 
so,  but  that  my  grand-daughter  being 
older  than  they,  she  must  be  given 
thus  and  so.  But  she  couldn't 
think  for  a  moment  that  I  had  any 
faith  in  her  statement,  for  she  was 
perfectly  aware  that  I  knew  my 
grand-daughter  would  never  get  it, 
for  she  had  already  given  every- 
thing to  her  own  daughter.  How- 
ever, I  told  her  that  it  was  mj  de- 
sire to  divide  those  things  among  all 
the  children  equally,  and  not  that 
one  should  have  all  and  the  remain- 
der get  none ;  and  she  faithfully 
promised  me  that  my  wishes  should 
be  carried  out — that  she  was  really 
■willing  to  do  so,  and  that  her  own 
views  upon  the  point  fully  accoided 
with  my  own. 

But  the  sequel  proved  that  she 
falsified  every  promise  she  ever 
made  me,  and  for  cause  that  will  ex- 
plain itself  to  the  reader,  I  will  now 
refer  to  her  •  conduct  immediately 
after  our  marriage.  Scon  after 
that  event  we  commenced  attending 
church  together.  I  went  with  her 
four  times,  but  she  behaved  so  out- 
rageously on  these  occasions  that  it 
■was  no  pleasure  to  me  to  accompany 
her.  It  was  no  satisfaction  to  leave 
home  quarreling  and  return  in  the 
same  manner — I  couldn't  bear  it — 
so  after  awhile    I    quit    going   to 


church  with  her.  Some  time  after 
this,  I  asked  her  which  she  had 
rather  do,  "  Take  a  cart  and  go  to 
meetin',  or  ride  horseback  ?  "  She 
snapped  me  up  and  replied,  that 
she'd  rather  ride  horseback  ;  so  she 
went  in  that  manner  twice,  and  then 
took  to  ;2;oin;^  afoot  with  her  dau<ih- 
ter.  On  Friday  nights  she  would 
wash,  arrange  her  clothes,  &:c.,  and 
on  the  following  mornings,  before  I 
could  feed  my  ^rock  and  get  back  to 
the  house,  she  would  be  ofif  and 
gone. 

Sometimes  she  would  go  off  tear- 
ing mad  just  after  twelve  o'clock  on 
Friday,  and  at  these  times  she 
would  really  appear  as  if  she  "was 
crazy.  Generally  at  such  times  no 
one  Avould  say  a  word  to  her,  but  on 
one  occasion  the  cook  asked  her 
what  in  the  world  she  went  off  mad 
in  that  way  for,  and  came  back 
home  so  angry,  and  she  replied  to 
the  cook,  that  she  belonged  to  the 
church,  and  was  obliged  to  do  it. 

One  Sunday,  she  and  Betsey 
Pittman  went  to  church  together 
(they  went  in  the  cart,  I  suppose, 
for  they  caire  back  that  way,)  and 
in  the  evenincr  after  thev  returned, 
I  asked  Betsey  Pittman  who 
preached  that  day,  and  sho  told  me, 
and  then  went  on  to  tell  me  that 
folks  had  been  talking  of  me  that 
day.  I  enquired  what  they  had 
been  talking  about  me  for,  and  she 
said  it  was  because  I  gave  Eliza  no 
better  chance  than  I  did  to  go  to 
church.  I  said,  they  may  talk  on, 
I  didn't  care,  for  Eliza  had  as  good 


TEE  LIFE    OF  MICAJAR  ANDERSON. 


21 


a  chance  to  go  to  meeting  as  she  did 
tefore  I  married  her. 

I  had  heard  before  that  the  peo- 
ple generally,  as  ^vell  as  her  own 
relations,  were  talking  this  thing, 
■wherefore  it  does  seem  to  me  that 
cinyone  not  altogether  blinded  can 
fiee  through  the  whole  business. 

And  now    to  the"  great    fortune 
«he  made  by  marrying  me  :     After 
tree's  surrender,  I  was   ordered  to 
go  forward  and  take  the  oath  of  al- 
Ipfriance,  (I  called  it  that  day  the 
insokent  oath,   and  a  great    many 
found  it  such.)  and  I  did  so  on  ac- 
count of  the  colored  people.     After 
I  had  taken  the  oath,  I  went  home 
and   into    the    house    where    Eliza 
was  and  teld  her  that  our  negroes 
were  free,   and  that  we  had  agreed 
upon  the  price  I  should  pay  thera 
for  their   labor.     I  told  her  that  I 
should  like   for  mine    to  stay  with 
me  as  I  had  my  crop  planted,  but  if 
they  wanted  lO  leave  they  could  do 
so,  as  I  could  make  enough   to  eat 
without  them.     She  then  began  to 
rave    and  rant,    and  declared   that 
-when    the  negroes,    and   especially 
Betty,    the    cook,    left,    she  would 
leave  too.     At   this  point    I  went 
<iown  to  the  field  where  the  negroes 
were,  and  told  them  they  were   all 
free,  but  that  if  they  would  remain 
with  me,  I  would  give  them  so  much 
(naming    the    different    sums)    and 
they  agreed   to    stay;    and  all    did 
stay  but  one.     I  then  went  back  to 
the  house   and  hired  the   cook   for 
Eliza.      On  the  next  day  one  of  my 
white  boys  did  something  that  he 


ought  not  to  have  done,  and  I  began 
to  chastise  him  for  it,  when  Eliza 
walked  up  with  her  hands  on  her 
hips,  and  remarked  that  losing  my 
property  would  drive  me  distracted, 
and  that  I  had  only  brought  her  to 
my  house  to  make  her  a  negro  for 
myself  and  my  children. 

I  replied  that  I  hoped  it  would 
not  drive  her  distracted  before  it 
did  me  ;  that  as  for  myself,  my  pro- 
perty was  all  paid  for — paid  for  by 
my  honest  industry,  and  not  ac- 
quired by  cheating,  stealing,  robbing 
or  marriasjo.  She  then  went  on  to 
say  that  before  she  would  remain  at 
my  house  and  cook,  and  wash  and 
such,  she  would  go  to  the  poor 
house  and  stay  there,  and  die. 

It  was  not  long  after  I  married 
her  before  she  began  to  lament  her 
fortune,  and  to  express  fears  that 
her  daughter  would  lose  all  of  her 
thinscs  that  she  brouojht  with  her, 
but  I  told  her  to  put  her  daughter's 
things  away — that  I  did  not  want 
them. 

All  of  Eliza's  worldly  goods,  ex- 
cept a  "bofat,"  I  carried  home  in  two 
carta,  and  could  easily  have  carried 
the  *'  bofat,  "  but  Eliza  said  there 
wasn't  room  for  it  in  the  -house. — 
She  talked  and  fretted  so  much 
about  the  loss  of  her  property,  that 
I  went  to  Tarboro,  saw  John  Nor- 
ilee't,  and  got  him  to  write  me  a 
will,  in  which  I  gave  her  50  acres 
of  land,  with  a  house  upon  it  (the 
same  in  which  I  now  live),  and  the 
effects  she  had  when  I  married  her, 
and   one  year's  provisions.     When 


9v) 


THi:  LIFE   OF  JIICAJAII  ANDFLSON.. 


She  returned  home  from  Wesley 
Pittman's,  her  brother,  I  told  her 
what  I  had  done,  and  she  seemed 
entirely  satisfie(>^  and  certainly 
ought  to  have  been,  for  the  rent  of 
the  land  itself,  would  have  been  a 
plenty  of  support  for  herself  and 
daughter — more  than  thcj  had  ever 
had  before  in  their  lives. 

When  I  married  Eliza,  her  chi'd 
was  a  county  charge,  and  its  mother 
was  receiving  two  dollars  from  the 
county  for  its  support.  Of  course  I 
meant  to  help  her  maintain  her 
child,  and  our  neighbors  all  around 
were  contributing  to  its  support, 
although  at  that  very  time  her  child 
was  large  enough  to  earn  a  liveli- 
hood for  itself. 

When  Eliza  came  back  from  her 
brother's  and  made  me  such  fair 
promises,  I  began  to  go  to  meetin' 
with  her  again,  and  went  alone  with 
her  four  times.  I  never  in  all  my 
life  had  so  much  confidence  in 
Eliza  as  I  did  at  this  time,  and  it 
was  all  owing  to  the  many  fair 
promises  she  made  me.  I  loved  her 
greatly  and  felt  like  I  could  eat  her 
up  from  affection,  if  I  knew  it 
wouldn't  hurt  her.  For  the  four 
months  following  I  had  all  the  plea- 
sure I  ever  saw  with  her.  In  this 
time  we  went  to  hear  Jordan  Johnson 
preach  once,  and  I  never  heard  a 
sermon  in  my  life  before  that  did 
me  so  much  good.  It  lifted  up  my 
faith  and  hope  so  much  that  I  felt 
like  I  had  been  changed  from  na- 
ture to  grace,  and  told  Eliza  so.-  - 
While  I  was  telling  her  of  it,   Jor- 


dan Johnson  rode  up,  and  coming 
to  my  right,  I  told  him  he  had  done 
me  more  good  that  day,  than  ever 
before  in  his  life,  and  he  said  he  was 
glad  of  it,  and  I  told  him  1  would  2!;o  to 
see  him  before  raanv  davs.  That 
was  on  Saturday.  The  following 
morning  I  arose  from  bed,  dressed, 
went  out  and  fed  my  stock,  returned 
and  ate  mv  breakfast.  I  intended  to 
go  to  preaching  that  day,  and  see- 
ing no  preparations  that  way  on 
Eliza's  part,  I  asked  her  if  she 
wasn't  goinn;  to  meetin'.  She  re- 
plied  that  she  felt  so  sore  and  bad 
that  she  couldn't  go.  I  said,  "  Oh, 
do  go  with  me,  Eliza  ;  after  start- 
ing, you  will  feel  better,  I  hope  ; 
now  you'd  better  come  and  go." — 
She  replied  that  as  long  as  I  wanted 
her  to  go  she  would.  So  we  both 
went  to  meetin'  tosrether. 

On  Monday  morning  she  arose, 
went  into  the  kitchen  and  began  to 
fuss  and  rail.  She  said  before  she 
would  stay  in  such  a  mess  as  was 
there  (at  my  house)  she  would  go 
into  the  woods,  and  remain  there 
till  she  died,  because  I  had  only 
brought  her  there  to  make  a  wait-, 
ing-girl  of  her. 

This  language  filled  my  heart  so 
full  that  I  thought  it  would  break. 
Breakfast  was  now  ready  and  I 
went  in  to  eat.  As  I  sat  down  to 
the  table  she  was  leaning  over  the 
fire  place,  with  her  back  to  me.  I 
drank  a  cup  of  tea,  but  ate  not  a 
mouthful.  I  then  went  out  of  the 
house,  and  her  tongue  streightway 
bec'an  a^-ain.     I  now  sot    a   chair 


THE  LIFE   OF  mCAJAlI  AXBFRSOX. 


Z6 


and  went  off  in  the  yard  about  sixty 
feet  from  tin  kitchen  and  sat  down. 
While  sitting  there,  I  sai.l,  "Lord, 
is  it  possible  that  Eliza  has  begun 
her  old  sinful  wa^^s  again.  0,  Lord, 
stand  by  me,  and  b'e  with  me,  and 
help  me  to  stand  the  hard  trials  and 
persecutions  in  this  unfriendly 
world.  "  Soon  I  went  off  to  the 
plantation,  and  remamed  there,  I 
suppose,  about  two  hours,  when  be- 
cominfr  very  ^veak  and  weary  I  re- 
turned  to  the  house,  took  my  chair 
and  aiiain  sat  down  near  where  I 
sat  two  hours  before.  [She  was 
still  rantins:.!  Eliza  had  a  rooster 
that  she  called  "Pete,"  and  the 
very  moment  I  sat  down,  that 
rooster  came  to  me,  stared  me  in 
the  face  and  crowed.  I  shoo-ed 
at  him — he  ran  off  a  little  wav,  and 
for  awhile  I  thought  nothing  of  it. 
But  soon  he  came  back,  stared  at 
me  asiain,  and  becjan  to  walk  arcund 
me,  and  crowing  all  the  time. — 
While  Pete  w^as  crow-crowing,  Eliza 
was  ran-insr  and  rantins;. 

One  day  in  the  kitchen  she  began 
her  railing,  and  said  before  she 
would  stay  there,  and  cook  and  do,  , 
and  do  and  cook  for  such  a  parcel 
of  hound-dogs  as  we,  she  would  go 
in  the  woods  and  live  under  a  pine- 
bark  shelter,  for  if  she  stayed  there 
she  knew  she  would  die  and  go  to 
hell.  A  few  days  after  this  as  she 
was  passing  by  me,  I  said  to  her, 
"  Eliza,  the  way  3'ou  are  going  on 
on  this  plantation  surely  will  kill 
me,  for  my  poor  heart  must  break 
from  trouble.  "     She   made  no   re- 


ply, but  simply  turned  her  back  on 

me,  saying  "  pish,  pish,  " 

In  January  I  went  to  Whitaker's 

turnout,  leaving  her  at  home  in  her 

tantrums,    and    being   greatly  dis- 

tiGssed  in  my  mind,  at  the  moment 

of  starting  I    took    a    pretty  good 

drink,  and  arriving  at  "Whitaker's   I 

took   a    little    more.     I   drank  too 

much,   I    confess,    but   going    back 

home   that  evening  I   pestered,    no 

one,    but    after   sitting    up  awhile, 

went   to    bed.     I    had    no    sooner 

struck  the  bed  than  Eliza  said  that 

I  her  first  husband  was  a  smart  man, 

I  and  so,  too,  was  her  father,  and  that 

'  she  wouldn't  stay  there  any  longer. 

I  tokl  her  to  go  then  ;  and  she  threw 

open  the  door  and   darted  out.     It 

made  me  so  angry  that  I  arose  from 

the  bed,  put  on  my  clothes,  and  put 

out  after  her.     On  the  way  to  aunt 

Polly  Pittman's,  where  I  found  her, 

^  I  got  me  a  cotton  stalk,  with  which 

'  I  struck  Eliza  twice  when  I  came 

I  up  with  her.     As  soon  as  I  struck 

I  my  wife  she  broke  away,  and  I  then 

told  her-  to  go  home,  but  instead  of 

obeying  my  orders,  what  does  she 

do  but  goes  to  Betsey  Pittman's. — 

Now  the  folks  over  there  had  been 

threatening    pretty     heavily    what 

they  w^ere  going  to  do  if  I   didn't 

mind,  so  there  was  a  piece   of  iron 

that  we  had  for  a  fire-stick   at    our 

house,    so  I  just    took    that    along 

'  with  me  as  1  went  out  to  seek  Eliza 

* 

over  at  Betsey  Pittman's,  with  the 

determination   that  if  anybody  else 

interfered   in   this  (strictly  family) 

'  matter  between  me  and  my  wife,  I 


24 


TUB  LIFE    OF  MICAJAII  AXLEnsOS 


•would  wear  'em  out  to  a  frazzle.  I '  ried  mo,  she  never  sa\Y  the  time 
didn't  find  her  there,  however,  but  when  she  didn't  have  shoes  to  put 
if  I  had,  would  have  punished  her  i  on — shoes  good  enough  to  keep  her 
severely.  She  remained  away  sev-  !  feet  from  the  ground  ;  and  what  in 
eral  days,  and  I  advertised  her. —  |  the  world  she  meant  by  leaving 
The  day  after  the  advertisement  ap-  them  off  so  much,  I  couldn't  for 
peared  she  returned  home.  While  |  inj  li^'-'  tell.  Sometimes  when  I 
she  was  absent,  same  mysterious  |  would  tell  Eliza  she  ought  to  put 
power  seemed  to  say  to  me  that  it  j  lier  shoes  on,  she  would  reply  that 
was  my  duty  to  hold  devotional  ex-  I  she  v/ould  when  cold  weather  came. 


ercises  in  the  presence  and   hearing 
of  my  family  every  nip^ht,  and  upon 


and  maybe  at  that   very   time    the 
weather  was  as  cold  as  it  ever  gets 


Eliza's  return  home,  the  same  power  i  to  be. 

told  me  that  I  should  not  only  do  I  hired  my  daughter,  Susan  Den- 
her  no  harm,  but  sboull  pray  for  \  ton,  to  weave  two  webs  of  cloth  that 
her  instead.  I  followed  the  advice  '  ^1  little  motherJess  children  had 
of  the  mysterious  power.  spun   (I   think    she    told    me  there 


One  nio-ht  as  I  sat  before  the  fire 


were  forty-eight   yards  in  tie   two 


she  came  in  and  sat  down  facing  j  pieces),  and  after  she  had  finished  it 
me,  and  said  to  me  that  I  was  al-  '  Eliza  cut  off  eleven  yards.  Where 
ways  going  down  on  my  knees  to  the  balance  went,  the  reader  can 
pray,  but  as  fo-r  herself,  she  never  i  guess  (?)  after  awhile.  Eliza's 
before  heard  anybody  pray  for  any-  }  daughter  then  takes  the  cotton  that 
one  except  the  elect.     I  .did  not  re- 1  old  aunt  Polly  Pittman  and  my  little 


ply  to  her,  and  she  jumped  up  and 
ran  out  of  the  house.  After  this  I 
did  not  practice  my  devotions  in  her 
presence. 


motherless  children  had  spun,  and 
wave  her  a  web  of  cloth  of  eleven 
yards.  Next  she  takes  ever  so 
much   butter — I   can't  begin  to  say 


My  wife  would  go  out  barefooted  i  how  much  :  over  fifty  pounds  of  tal- 
and  barelegged  (her  fi'ock  tucked  |  low,  and  my  children's  cloth,  and 
away  up  above  her  knees)  to  milk  |  goes  with  them — the  two  lots  of 
the  cows,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  j  cloth,  butter,  tallow  and  all — to 
the  house,  and  the  neighbors  seeinej  Mr.  Robert  Austin's,  to  trade, 
her  in  this  unseemly  condition, 
would  enquire  why  in  the  world  she 
went  without  shoes,  and  she  would  |  such  things  as  she  wanted,  and  she 
reply  that  she  had  no  shoes— that  |  put  oS"  for  some  other  store.  She 
I  neither  would  give  her  any  shoes  |  came  back  soon,  however,  and  I 
nor  go  to  preaching  with  her.     All    asked  her  if  she  had  done  her  busi 


But  she  pretended  that  she  couldn't 
get  there,  for  my  little  girls'  cloth, 


of  which  mas  just  as  arrant  a  1 — fib 
as  ever  was  told.     After  she  mar- 


ness,  and  she  said  she  had.     I  en- 

'  4 

quired  how  much  she  received  for 


TEE  LIFE   OF  MICAJAE  ANDEBSOK 


25 


inv  little  girls'  cloth,  and  she  said 
she  got  thirty  cents  a  yard.  Very 
well. 

I  had,  sometime  before  this,  dis- 
covered that  my  children  and  I  were 
getting  very  bare  as  to  shirts,  and  I 
told  them  that  if  they  would  spin 
the  cotton,  I  would  buy  a  bunch  of 
warp,  and  we  could  all  have  shirts. 

This  day  I  bought  a  bunch  of 
cotton,  and  Eliza  bought  one,  too. 
When  we  returned  home,  the  finery 
Eliza's  daughter  had  purchased  had 
to  be  shown  aU  around,  of  course. 
Among  the  articles  were  two  yards 
of  calico  at  fifteen  cents  a  yard,  two 
Shaker  bonnets  at  forty  cents  each, 
and  two  belts  at  ten  cents  each^ 
and  these  were  the  goods,  wares 
and  merchandise,  all  told,  that  she 
gave  my  little  girls  in  exchange  for 
their  eleven  yards  of  cloth  ;  keep- 
ing the  entire  proceeds  of  the  other 
cloth,  butter,  tallow,  &c.,  for  her- 
self and  her  daughter. 

The  bunch  of  cotton  she  bouo;ht 
that  day  she  sent  away,  and  where 
her's  went  there  went  mine,  and  I 
have  not  seen  or  heard  of  it  to  this 
day.  Two  or  three  days  from  that 
time,  I  asked  Eliza  if  she  supposed 
that  I  was  such  a  fool  that  I  couldn't 
see  throuo;h  her  doinojs.  I  told  her 
that  she  had  been  robbing  my  poor 
little  children,  and  that  she  had 
never  been  the  woman  to  give  them 
even  the  wrappings  of  her  finger  in 
all  her  life.  Lady  of  the  plantation, 
and  both  master  and  mistress  of  the 
premises,  as  she  was,  she  bought  for 
herself  a  fine  worsted  dress,  a  very 


fine  hoop  skirt  (the  one  she  had  was 
not  big  enough — it  wouldn't  spread 
out  enough  for  her),  a  pair  of  fine 
shoes, and  other  gay  riggin'  to  match 
her  dress. 

Off  the  balance  of  the  web  of 
cloth  remaining,  she  would  slip  a 
piece  at  a  time,  until  she  made  way 
with  all  of  it,  except  enough  for 
three  pairs  of  pants,  and  lining  for 
a  coat  and  waistcoat.  One  piece  of 
it  she  took,  she  said,  to  make  her 
daughter  a  jacket,  but  afterwards 
thought  to  make  it  for  herself,  but  I 
don't  believe  she  did  it,  for  I  never 
saw  her  have  it  on. 

A  great  (?)  legacy  fell  to  Eliza 
from  her  grandmother  Pittman's  es- 
tate, of  which  her  brother  Wesley 
was  administrator.  When  Wesley 
paid  over  to  Eliza  her  full  share  of 
the  estate,  he  gave  her  the  full  sum 
of  two  dollars.  Well,  when  the 
great  legacy  was  received,  Eliza 
and  her'n  had  to  go  to  the  store  to 
spend  it.  Among  the  things  she 
bought  was  a  fine  dress  and  a  right 
smart  of  other  riggin',  and  all 
of  it  with  those  two  dollars.  [Of 
course  she  had  been  robbing  Peter 
to  pay  Paul — and  you  may  guess 
who  Peter  was.] 

The  legacy  having  all  gone,  they 
took  up  another  plan  of  operations. 
My  little  girls  were  spinning  cotton 
for  our  shirts,  as  I  have  mentioned 
before,  and  just  as  fast  as  they  could 
spin  it,  Eliza  and  her  daughter 
would  slip  it  ofi"  and  make  way  with 
it.  In  the  meantime,  my  children 
and  I  were  getting  almost   naked, 


26 


rUE  LIFE'  OF  ?dICAJAU  AXIJEESOX. 


so  much  so  that  Eliza  had  to  turn 
in  to  mending  our  ragged  garments. 
While  so  employed,  she  Avas  ever- 
lastingly complaining  that  she  had 
to  be  m.ending  and  patching  old 
dirty  rags  all  the  time.  Yes,  she 
said,  it's  patch  and  do,  and  do  and 
patch;  cook  and  do,  and  do  and 
cook ;  patch  and  cook,  cook  and 
patch  ;  patch,  cook — cook,  patch — 
patch — pacch  ;  and,  she  added,  I 
am  not  agoing  to  do  it  any  longer, 
for  he  just  brought  me  here  anyhow 
to  make  a  niircrer  of  me. 


"CO 


While  my  "svife  was  thus  fuming, 
her  lady  daughter  would  strut 
around  the  house  savino;,  *'  Me  and 
mother  are  agoing  away  after  this 
year  ;  after  this  here  year,  me  and 
mother  are  agoing  away ;  and  I 
don't  know  what  in  the  world  you 
Avill  all  do  then — that  I  don't. 

"We  will  now  enter  upon  the 
chicken  question  for  the  purpose  of 
showing  up  her  daughter's  charac- 
ter in  that  line.  Liza  and  her  girl 
had  their  chicken  coops  three  or 
four  steps  from  my  meal  house,  and 
jier  j?irl  she  v/ould  mix  up  vrater 
and  meal  and  throw  in  the  coops — 
and  keep  throwing  in—  until  ihe 
whole  yard  would  be  just  as  sour. — 
And  sometimes  when  the  dough  in 
the  chicken  coop  would  be  fully  an 
inch  thick,  she  would  go  into  the 
house  and  te:l  her  mother  that  she 
must  go  and  feed  the  chickens  for 
she  knew  they  were  hungry.  And 
Liza  would  always  tell  her  daugh- 
ter to  go  and  feed  the  chickens.  I 
ijtood  this  thin;:^  as  lon^r  as  I  could. 


so  one  day,  in  a  very  friendly  sort 
of  way,  I  told  Liza  there  wasn't 
any  use  in  throwin2!;  thinn;s  away  in 
\  that  sort  of  a  style.  I  told  lier 
just  to  go  and  look  in  the  coop  and 
see  how  much  meal  was  wastinir. — 

t  o 

■  I  told  her  we   couldn't    sret    alonfj; 

:  and  live,    and  things  going  on   so. 

She    replied  very   snappishly    that 

I  there  was  nothing  in  the  coops  but 

I  meal  bran,   and  that  I  couldn't  ex- 

!  pect  little  chickens  to  eat  meal  bran, 

\  for    they     couldn't     stand     it.     I 

couldn't  stand  this  wasting  of  meal 

in  such  a   fashion,   and  I   resolved 

that  I  wouldn't. 

But    to    the     chicken    question 

acrain.     When    Liza  first;   came    to 

my   house,    she    brought   with   her 

I  three  hens,  one  ot  which  they  called 

j  the    ^'  Old   Blue    Hen.  "     [Xow    I 

candidly    believe    that    I    had    two 

blue  hens  when  Liza  first  came  to 

my    house.]     W^ell,     her    daughter 

could  set  the  old  blue  hen  whenever 

she    pleased — provided    she    could 

get  eggs  to  put  under  her.    ^Vhen  the 

old  blue   was   sittin^f    the  dau";hter 

would  not  let  her  come  off  her  nest 

j  to  be  fed,  but  she  would  pile  up  the 

'  feed   around  htr — as  much    bread, 

:  (fcc,  as  a  man  could  eat.     When  she 

!  would  hatch,  and  come  off  her  nest 

I  with    her    little    chicks,    her   brood 

would  be^-in  to  increase  in  numbers 

every  day,  and  it  happened  in  this 

T^-ay.     When  any  other  hen  on  the 

place   would    hatch,    this   daughter 

would    inform    her    mother    of   the 

fact,  and  declare  that  this  ether  hen 

was  killing  her   chickens,  and  that 

they  ought  to  be  taken   away  from 


THi:  LIFE  OF  3IICAJAJI  AXDFRSOX. 


Ti 


1         5  J 


her    and    put   "with    "  old    blue's 

chicks,     and — it    was    done.     And 

that's  the  -way  Liza   and   her  lady 

daughter  got  all  the  chickens. 

In  the  spring  of  '67,  I  asked  mj 
Tvife  not  to  try  to  raise  many  chick- 
ens,  for  corn  was  so  high  and  scarce 
that  the  fowl  business  wouldn't  pay. 
I  was  then  paying  seven  and  a  half 
and  eight  dollars  a  barrel  for  all  the 
corn  consumed  in  my  family,  and  of 
course  I  wanted  to  live  as  savincrlv 
as  possible.     But  she  continued  to 
let"  the  hens  set  and  hatch  chickens, 
but  not  only  that  she  trained  them 
to  go   into   the  meal-house,   where 
they  would  scratch  and  wallow  in 
the  meal  until  it  was  not  really  fit 
to   be    eaten.     Besides    the    meal- 
house  got  to  smelling  so  badly  that 
it  could  be  scented  over  the  whole 
yard  ;  indeed  it  smelled  as  badly  as 
carrion,  from  bad  eggs  and  such. — 
But  enough  on  this  point  until  we 
reach    ''  Pete "     again.     I    was   so 
much  upset   in    mind    about  these 
things  that  I  went  to  Cotton's  meet- 
ing house  on  the  following  Sunday 
to  see  William  Bell,  and  get  him  to 
talk  to  Liza.     I  told  him  I   wished 
him  to  come  to  my  house  on  Friday 
before  the  third  Sunday   in   April, 
but  did  not  let  him  know  what  I 
wanted  with  him.     He  promised  to 
come,  and  did  so,  but  found  my  wife 
so  sick   that  he   did  not  stay  with 
me  that  night ;  and  I  did  not  see 
him  again  until  after  Liza  left  me. 
I  saw  him  next  at  brother  John's, 
where  I   spoke    to   him   about    her 
leaving  me,  and  about  her  conduct 


generally,  and  told  him  that  it  was 
•on  account  of  these  matters  that  I 
had  desired  to  see  him  when  I  in- 
vited him  to  my  house.  I  wanted 
him  to  remonstrate  with  her  upon 
j  her  behaviour,  and  thought  that  a 
I  round  lecture  from  him  might  do 
her  fTOod. 

The  Friday  before  the  third  Sun- 
day in  April,  my  daughter  had  sent 
me  a  mess  of  fresh  fish,  and  on  Sat- 
urday morning,  while  my  two  little 
girls  were  in  the  kitchen  helping  to 
get  breakfast,  I   saw   Liza's   ladv 
daughter  in  the  house,  and  I  .told 
her  to  go  in  the  kitchen  and  assist 
the  girls  in  preparing   breakfast,  so 
that  they  could  get  through  quickly 
and  go  to  their  work.     I  was  sitting 
on  one  side  of  the  door  at  the  time, 
and  jumping  up  she  passed  by  me, 
remarking  as   she  passed  that  she 
wasn't  going  to  run  her  legs  ofi"  for 
anybody.     I   quietly  retorted  that 
there  wasn't  the  least  danger  of  her 
losing  her  lower  limbs  in  that  way. 
But  she  went  on  to  the  kitchen,  and 
placing  some  of  the  fish  in  the  fry- 
ing pan  she  put  the  pan  on  the  fire, 
and  there  let  it  remain  until  the  fish 
were  completely  burned  up,  and  she 
then  threw  them  away.     I  told  her 
to  put  away  two  of  the  fish  until  her 
mother  was  well  enough  to  eat  them. 

Divers  times  Eliza  would  set  her 
lady  daughter  to  mind  what  was 
cooking,  but  instead  of  attending  to 
her  business  she  would  take  her  seat, 
and  sit  still  until  everythino-  was 
burned  up,  and  then  whatever  it 
was,  Eliza  would  carry  it  ofi'  to  the 


1^ 


TEE   LIFE    OF  JIICAJAH  AXLEIiSOS 


gardcD,  throw  it  away,  and  then  get  and  leave  vou  here.  Upon  this  her 
more.  I  frequently  talked  to  them  ,  daughter  went  oft',  remained  away 
about  such  wastefulness,  but  they  about  four  days,  and  then  came 
always  replied  that  they  didn't  care  ^  back.     The  morning  after  her   re- 


— they  didn't  have  to  provide  for 
our  common  wants.  I  never  said 
more  to  them,  because  I  knew  if  I 
did  that  it  would  only  make  matters 
worse. 

The  following  Sunday  morning 
— the  morning  after  the  fish  were 
burnt  up — Eliza  filled  the  dinner- 
pot  with  water,  placed  it  on  the  fire, 
and  then  went  out  to  milk  the  cows. 
"When    she  returned  to  the    house. 


turn  she  came  walking  up  to  the 
kitchen  where  her  mother  was,  and 
I  asked  her  (I  was  sitting  in  the 
door  of  my  dwellingj  if  she  had 
come  back  t3  run  her  legs  o^.  She 
made  no  repl}'.  I  then  remarked 
to  her  that  it  had  been  reported  by 
her  mother,  and  her  relatives  gen- 
erally, that  I  had  not  treated  her 
as  a  member  of  the  family.  Such 
was  the  fact  I  said,  but  shall  not  be 


her  daughter  met  her  at  the  door  |  so  in  future,  and  now,  says  I,  if  you 
and  informed  her  that  some  one  had  j  don't  go  to  work  and  behave  your- 
been  taking  her  water  from  the  pot.  I  self,  I    will    give   you    one    of   the 

. 1st  whippings  that  ever  a  girl 


My  wife  grew  wrathy  then,  and  said  d — 
sure  enough  somebody  had  taken  wore.  Her  mother  then  began  to 
her  water.  She  further  said  that  I  rail  terribly,  but  I  said  nothing  to 
had  just  carried  here  there  to  make  her — not  a  single  word, 
a  waitin^l-frirlof  her.  I  said  nothing  But  I  told  Mary  Williford,  her 
to  this,  but  told  her  girl  that  she  lady  daughter,  that  if  her  mother 
ouo^ht  to  have  gone  after  water  for  j  was  to  die  that  she  had  not  a  single 
her  poor  old  mother,  instead  of  per- !  relative  with  whom  she  could  find 
mitting  her  poor  old  mother  to  do  |  a  home,  for  they  all  knew  her  too 
so.  I  told  her  that  she  had  not  only  |  well.  That  day,  after  our  talk,  she 
not  done  as  she  ouo^ht  to  have  done,  j  took  to  work,  and  spun  about  four 
but  that  she  was  forever  trying  to  \  ounces  of  cotton.     She  commenced 


make  a  disturbance  en  the  planta- 
tion. 

I  further  remarked  to  her  that  I 


spinning  again  the  next  morning, 
but  left  ofi"  at  twelve  o'clock,  and 
went  over  to  my    son   John's,    who 


was  firmly  resolved  to  put  a  stop  to  i  married  her  cousin,  and  there  she 
such  conduct.     Hereupon  Liza  be-   remained,  I  think,  until  the  follow- 


gan  to  storm  and  said  to  her  daugh- 
ter that  she  bad  better  go  right  off 
and  find  another  home  for  herself  ; 
that  she  knew  she  could  do  it,  and 
she  wanted  her  to  do  it,  for  said 
Liza,  I  should  never   die    satisfied 


ing  morning,  when  she  came  back. 
She  brought  with  her  a  web  of 
cloth  of  fourteen  yards,  which  she 
was  to  weave  for  her  cousin,  and 
she  did  weave  it  in  just  fourteen 
days — I  know  for  I  took  note  of  the 


Xni:  LIFJE   OF  MICAJAII  AXLERSOls 


29 


time.      When  she  finished  the  web  '  sheet  she  got  for  her  own  bed  by 


of  cloth,  Eliza  took  down  the  loom, 
and  removed   it  to    a   small    house 


weaving.     She  Avould   never  put  a 
mouthful  of  butter  on  the  table  un- 


about  an  hundred  yards  distant  i  til  it  was  so  rank  that  vou  could 
from  m}^  dwsHing.  Upon  getting  |  gcent  it  the  moment  you  entered 
into  their  new  quarters,  they  got  in    the  house. 


fine  humor,  andbeirau  to  talk  about 


About  twelve   months  before  she 


the  lads  and  young  men,  and  must  i  went   away,  she  began  to  give  me 


have    been    greatly    pleased    with 
their  own  remarks,  for  -I  could  hear 


an  allowance  of  butter.      She  would 
pla?c   a   lump  about  the  size   of  a 


them  laugh  clear  to  m}^  house.  But  hen's  egg  by  my  plate.  This  rather 
as  soon  as  ever  she  went  to  the  vexed  m^e,  and  I  asked  her  what  in 
kitchen  her  afriZ^'avatino;  tonofue  \  the  name  of  common  sense  went 
would  begin.  Once  she  said  that  I  '  with  all  the  butter,  and  she  replied 
was  watching  her  lest  she  might  '  that  it  all  went  to  pay  for  washing 
steal  something,  I  replied  that  I  the  old  dirty  rags.  But  that  wasn't 
was  not  watching  her  particularly,  :  so,  for  aicer  she  went  away  the 
at  the  same  time  reminded  her  that  j  same  colored  woman  who  had  been 
no  honest  woman  would  use  such  i  wasliino;  for  us  all  the  time,  and  who 
lancruao-e  to  her  husband,  and  that  i  used  to  belono;  to  me,  told  me  that 
I  had  seen  enough  of  her  to  know  I  Eliza  had  never  given  her  a  thing  in 
that  the  charge  of  honesty  was  the  !  the  world  for  washing,  except  one 
ver}^  last  one  to  which  she  was  lia^  I  old  frock. 

ble.  I  will  now  endeavor  to  show  '  Liza  was  forever  annoying  me  by 
up  another  trait  in  her  character  :  '  talking  about  our  nakedness,  and  I 
Before  the  provisions   were    placed    generally  retorted  that  it  was  very 


on    the    table   at   meal    times,    she 


true  that  we  were  inclined  that  way, 


would  cut  up  all  the  meat,  pick  out  I  but  she  must  remember  that  she 
all  the  choice  bits  for  herself  and  \  had  never  put  anything  on  us. — 
daughter,  and  send  the  refuse  to  I  The  clothes  that  my  little  girls  wore 
the  tible  for  me  and  my  little  chil-  i  were  made  of  cotton  that  they  them- 
dren.  From  the  time  that  I  talked  ^  selves  had  carded  and  spun, — no 
with  Jordan  Johnson  until  she  went  i  thanks  to  Liza.  As  for  her  own 
away /or  good^  I  never  saw  a  whole  lady  daughter,  Mary  Williford,  she 
piece  of  meat  on  my  table,  and  dur-  never  did  a  thing  in  the  blessed 
ing  that  time  she  never  spoke  cne    world  but  stuff  her  insides,  lie  abed, 


friendly  word  to  me. 

Liza   staid  with   me    about   tour 


lounge  around  and  make  fusses. 
One    day  I  went  to   Whitaker's 


years  and  four  months,  and  in  that  j  turn-out,  and  coming  back,  I  called 


whole  time  she  never  got  a  rag   of 
bed  clothes,  if  you  except  one  little 


at  "Wesley  Fountain's  (whose  own 
aunt  Eliza  \ras,  and  her  first  bus- 


30 


THE  LIFE   OF  MlCAJAIt  AKLF^RSON: 


I 

band  was  Wesley's  cousin),  to  see  : 
hov,-  he  was  &€..  and  wliilc  there  he 
told  me  that  he  would  have  to  buy 
meat  for  the  next  year,  and  tliat  he 
would  have  to  buv  it  on  time,  as  he 
didn't  have  the  cash  to  pay  down 
for  it.  He  said  he  thought  it  would 
be  better  to  buy  bacon  as  it  "Was 
cheaper  than  pork,  and  asked  what 
I  thought  o:  it.  I  gave  it  as  my 
opinion  that  if  he  could  get  old  meat 
that  was  free  of  worms,  he  had  bet- 
ter do  so,becanse  it  was  the  cheapest. 
He  didn't  ask  whether  I  had  any  to 
sell,  although  I  had  let  him  have 
seventy-five  pounds  the  same  year, 
so  I  went  home.  But  knowinir  that 
be  had  no  one  to  help  him,  I  felt 
for  his  condition,  and  sent  him  word 
by  his  sister  Martha  that  I  would 
let  him  have  all  I  could  spare.  So 
the  next  day  jNIartha  and  his  sister 
came  with  a  cart,  and  said  that  Wes- 
ley wanted  me  to  send  him  all  the 
meat  I  could  spare,  and  to  let  him 
know  my  price  for  it.  [I  had  al- 
ready told  him  the  price.]  The  next 
morning,  which  was  the  last  day  of 
November,  they  drove  the  cart  up 
^0  my  smoke-house  door,  and  took 
jon  two  hundred  and  fifty-four  pounds 
of  bacon.  I  then  made  a  calcula- 
tion in  my  head,  what  the  meat 
would  come  to,  and  told  Martha  to 
iell  her  brother  to  make  me  a  note 
for  the  amount  as  quick  as  ever  he 
could,  and  send  it  to  me.  In  a  few 
days  Patrick  Lawrence  came  to  my 
house,  and  I  got  him  to  make  a  cal- 
culation about  the  bacon,  and  to 
enter  the  account  in  a  book,  in  order 


that    there    mis^ht    be    no    mistake 
about  it. 

On    the   first    day    of    January, 
Henry  Fountain  came  to  my  house 

and  paid  me  for  some  meat  tliat  he 
had  bought  of  me,  and  paid  me  some 
money  also  from  his  brother  Wes- 
ley for  the  seventy-five  pounds  that 
he  had  got  some  time  before.  Ire- 
quested  Hezrj  to  say  to  Vv'esley 
that  I  wanted  him  to  fix  up  that 
note  and  send  it  to  me.  About  the 
middle  of  January,  lleddin;z  Pitt^ 
man  came  over  to  my  house,  and  as 
he  walked  up  to  the  fire-place  (I 
was  sitting  on  one  siie  of  the  room 
and  Liza  on  the  other),  he  said  :-^ 
"  Here,  uncle  Cnjah,  is  the  note 
that  Wesley  has  sent  you.  "  I  sup- 
pose he  had  the  note  in  his  hand,  as 
I  never  saw  him  take  it  from  his 
pocket ;  at  any  rate,  I  did  not  take 
it  but  told  him  to  read  over  to  mCj 
and  he  did  so.  The  note  was  for 
one  hundred  and  fifty-four  pounds 
of  meat,  only,  and  I  told  him  I  would 
not  receive  it,  because  it  was  not 
right.  Then  Liza,  with  her  wicked, 
deceitful,  untruthful  tongue,  spoke 
up  and  said,  *'  Lord,  how  I  hate 
that.  "  From  the  manner  in  which 
she  spoke,  one  who  didn't  know 
her,  would  have  thought  that  butter 
wouldn't  have  melted  in  her  mouth 
at  the  time.  And  she  went  on  to 
say  that  it  would  kill  poor  Wesley, 
as  bad  ofi"  as  he  was.  I  said  I  didn't 
know  why  it  should  kill  him,  as  it 
was  merely  a  mistake  on  his  part,  or 
that  Martha  misrht  have  made  a  mis- 
take,  and  told  him  I  sent  him   one 


THE  LIFE    OF  MICAJAII  ANDEllSOX 


o  1 


liundrcil  and  fiftj-fonr  pounds, 
Avlien  it  ou^lit  to  have  hQentwo  hun- 
drcd  and  fift\^-four  pounds;  or  that 


and  her  ladv  dau<]^hter  were,  and  I 
did  not  see  her  any  more.  Thus 
the  matter  of  the  meat  rested   for 


she  mii^ht  not   have    been    present    about  a  month,  or  six  weeks.     One 

when  the  note  Avas  drawn.  Liza  re-  I  day  I  had  to  look  up  some  old  papers, 
plied  that  ^Martha  was  not  at  all  fn- i  and  I  had  engaged  Hias  Dickson 
getful,  but  that  I  was  mighty  for-  !  and  my  son  Tom  to  assist  me  in 
getful.  I  told  her  that  I  was  not  ,  finding  them.  They  had  examined 
altogether  so  forgetful  as  she  might  all  my  papers,  except  some  that 
suppose ;  that  I  knew  my  business,  I  were  in  a  band-box,  which  had  been 


and  knew,  too,  that  there  were  two 
hundred  and  fifty-four  pounds  of  the 


placed  over  the  foot  of  the  bed  on 
which  Martha    lay    the    night   she 


bacon.  Here  the  bacon  question  !  staid  with  us,  and  taking  that  down 
was  dropped,  and  nothing  more  was  I  they  began  to  examine  it,  and 
said  about  it  for  a  month.  But  one  ;  the  first  thing  they  found  was'  a 
Monday  evening  Martha  came  over  i  note.  Ilias  Dickson  was  the  first 
to  my  house  and  brought  it  up  again  I  to  discover  it,  and  as  he  did  so  he 
in  this  way  :  When  she  first  came  I  exclaimed,  "Here  is  a  note  against 
over  she  went  to  the  kitchen,  where  j  Wesley  Fountain.  "  "  A  note 
Liza  and  her  lady  daughter  were,  I  against  Wesley  Fountain?"  said  L 
and  remaining  in  there  awhile,  all  i  Yes,  he  said  it  was  against  Wesley 
three  came  in  the  house  where  I  ;  Fountain.  I  then  requested  him  to 
was.  After  the  usual  salutation,  '  I'^a^  it  over  to  me.  He  read  it^and 
she  says  to  me,  "Uncle  Cajah,  ! -t  saw  at  once  that  it  was  the  same- 
aren't  you  mistaken  about  that  mat-  ;  old  note  that  had  been  presented  to^ 
ter  (of  the  meat)  ?  "  I  told  her  I  ;  nie  for  the  one  hundred  and  fifty- 
was  not;  that  I  remembered  all  i  four  pounds  of  bacon.  And  I  re- 
about  it,  just  as  well  as  if  it  had  ;  marked  that  I  would  not  submit  to 
transpired  only  yesterday.  Shede-  j  such  injustice  and  rascality  ;  that  I 
clared  that  I  was,  but  did  not  think  ;  would  have  justice  or  die  in  the  at- 
that  I  intended  to  do  wron^.  I  .  tempt  to  get  it.  I  then  took  the 
then  asked  Martha  if  she  weighed  i  note  and  tore  it  up.  Ilias  and  my 
the  meat  when  she  reached  home  |  son  Tom  soon  left  for  their  homes, 
with  it,  and  she  said  she  did,  but  |  when  I  went  over  to  Redding  Pitt- 
had  forgotten  how  many  pounds  man's  to  enquire  of  him  how  that 
there  were.  Ithen  remarked  to  her  j  note  had  been  carried  to  Wesley 
that  I  wished  to  be  correct  about  it,  Fountain's.  He  told  me  that  he 
but,underthecircumstances,couldn't  j  gave  it  to  Henry  Fountain.  I  then 
see  how  I  would  be  likely  to  realize  I  informed  him  how  the  note  had  been 
my  wish.  Here  she  jumped  up  and  ■  found  in  my  possession,  and  gave  it 
ran  out  to  the  kitchen  where   Liza  \  as  my  opinion  that    anybody    who 


32 


TUE  LIFE   OF  2IICAJAU  AXLERSOX. 


could  be  guilty  of  such  a   "  trick  *' 

-was  capable  of  anything   dishonest 

and  villainous.     I  then   started  for 

home.     AVhen  I  arrived  there  Liza's 

lying,  deceitful  tongue  >vas  wagging 
away  as  usual,  and  coming  out  to- 
wards me  with  her  hands  on  her  hips, 
she  squalled  out  and  wanted  to 
know  why  I  had  not  gone  to  her 
about  the  note.  I  couldn't  see  why 
1  ought  to  have  gone  to  her  about 
thj  matter,  and  so  expressed  myself. 
She  then  said  that  Martha  had  given 
her  the  note,  telling  her  to  give  it  to 
me,  and  that  she  had  put  it  in  my 
band-box,  and  then  forgotten  to  in- 
form me.  I  asked  her  if  she  wasn't 
ashamed  to  tell  me  such  a  falsehood. 
I  then  told  her  that  the  manner  in 
which  she  had  endeavored  to  put 
the  note  on  me  was  worse  than  steal- 
inor.  I  observed  that  if  I  cculd  not 
get  what  belonged  to  me  I  would  ac- 
cept nothing  ;  but  that  it  was  the 
last  time  Wesley  Fountain  would 
get  anything  from  me.  I  now  de- 
termined to  let  the  whole  thing  drop 
— say  nothing  about  it — in  the  hope 
that  Liza  would  do  better,  but  in- 
stead of  improving  she  went 
"beyan't"  herself.  She  went  around 
among  her  folks  telling  them  that  I 
was  slanderino;  her,  and  she  charoied 
her  own  mean  acts  upon  me.  When 
she  left  me  the  last  time,  I  resolved 
to  keep  her  sinful  acts  from  the 
world  no  lono-er.  As  soon  as  she 
left  me,  I  warranted  Weslev  for  that 
meat,  and  at  the  trial  she  appeared 
as  witness  against  me.  The  case 
came  up  for  trial  at  Tarboro,  before 


squire  James  IL  }iL  Jackson, colored. 
After  beinfij  sworn,  I  bcfran  to  tell 
something  about  the  matter,  but  had 
not  proceeded  far,  when  Liza  dis- 
puted my  word.  I  had  not  known 
before  that  she  was  present,  but  re- 
coirnizini!:  her  well-known  voice,  I 
said,  "  Liza,  is  this  you;  is  it  possi- 
ble this  is  you  ?  "  She  opened  her 
mouth  not  at  all.  so  I  began  to  talk 
to  her,  and  asked  her  several  ques- 
tions pertinent  to  the  case  on  trial. 
She  denied  everything — things  that 
I  knew  to  be  facts — and  losing  all 
patience  with  the  wicked  woman,  I 
called  her,  to  her  face,  a  dirty,  lying 
strumpet. 

She  said  she  could  prove  her 
character,  and  was  going  to  do  it. 
I  said  I  thought  she  had  already 
proved  it.  After  the  trial  she  went 
to  Squire  Jackson  and  desired  to 
make  oath  as  to  the  weight  of  the 
bacon,  but  the  ''  Squire  "  would  not 
permit  her  to  do  so.  The  case  was 
finally  continued  to  Fountain's 
house.  When  the  tr'al  came  oif  at 
Fountain's,  she  was  not  present. — 
She  knew  that  1  was  pretty  wrathy 
on  account  of  her  course  before 
Squire  Jackson,  and  thought  it  best 
to  leave  before  I  arrived  upon  the 
irround.  And  I  reckon  she  acted 
wisely  in  keeping  out  of  my  sight, 
for  her  course  about  the  meat  had 
made  me  so  mad  that  I  don't  know 
that  I  would  not  have  beaten  her 
some.  The  fact  was,  she  didn't 
know  any  more  about  that  meat 
than  one  of  my  dogs,  for  when  the 
meat  was   weighed  ati   the  smoke- 


THE  LIFE   OF  AlICAJAR  AXBEBSOK 


33 


house,  she  was  ia  the  kitchen,  Y>'hich 
"ft-as  twenty  or  tvrentj-five  yards 
(list  an  ti 

Some  time  after  this  she  had  me 
hound  over  to  keep  the  peace,  and 
her  reason  for  doing  so  v;a3,  so  she 
said,  that  she  was  afraid  I  wouhl 
kill  her;  that  she  had  heard  I  said 
if  ever  I  caught  her  bv  herself  I 
would  beat  her  almost  to  death  ;  all 
of  which  was  false,  of  course,  be- 
cause if  I  had  ever  desired  to  take 
the  life  of  the  poor  creature,  I  could 
very  easily  have  done  so  on  divers 
occasions,  (and  once  vrhen  I  drench- 
ed her  for  some  ailment,)  for  I  kept 
strychnine  in  my  house  for  eighteen 
years. 

When  I  laid  my  hand  on  Liza  at 
the  church,  I  did  so  with  the  reso- 
lution of  taking  her  home  and  giv- 
ing her  a  genteel  whipping  at  first, 
.hen  locking  her  up  every  night 
and  take  her  out  by  dav,  and  never 
once  permitting  her  to  go  out  of  my 
sight  until  she  got  perfectly  cool 
and  learned  how  to  behave  herself. 
I  killed  three  hogs  that  weighed 
one  thousand  and  seventv-five 
pounds,  and  put  all  of  them  in 
pickle  except  one  shoulder  and 
the  hams.  I  put  them  up  in  a 
hogshead  and  barrel ;  the  barrel 
was  about  the  size  of  a  brandy  bar- 
rel. One  day  I  vrent  in  the  barrel 
to  weigh  out  rations  for  my  colored 
laborers,  and  discovered  that  two 
pieces  had  been  removed  from  the 
top.  Liza  told  me  that  they  had 
been  taken  for  the  use  cf  the  white 
family,  and  I  suppose   they  had. 


,Another  time  I  went  into  the  ho^'s- 


I  head  to  get    out  rations  for  my  la- 
;  borers,  and  weie;hed    out    seventr- 
\  five  pounds.     The  next  ration  time 
I  weighed  out    seventy-five  pounds, 
,  which  makes  in  all  one  hundred  and 
]  fifty  pounds   that  I  had  taken  out. 
I  When  I  wanted  some  of  it  the  third 
'  time,  I  sent  a  boy  to   get  it,  and  he 
was   so  long   about   it  that  I  asked 
why  he   didn't  get  it  and   bring  it 
along,  that  I  was    tired  of  waiting. 
I  He  observed   that    there  were  only 
two  pieces  in  the  hogshead.     I  told 
him  there   was    bound  to   be  more 
meat  than  that    in  there,  and  that 
;  he  would  find  it  under  the  brine. — 
'  Still  he  was    unable  to  find   any,  so 
i  examined  the   honrshead    mvself. 
To  m.y    utter  surprise    I    found  no 
meat,      whereupon     1     exclaimed, 
"  Lord    have    mercy  upon  me,  who 
ever   knew   the    likes    of    this ;    it 
surely  must  have  gone  out  of  the 
door,  for    I  have  not   heard  of  the 
smioke-house    having  been    broken 
open.  "     Hearing  this  exclamation 
of  surprise,  Liza  walked    out,    put 
her  hands  on  her  hips  and  screamed 
out,   "  I  reckon  I  stole  it.  "     Any^ 
hovY^,  says  I,  it  is  not   here.     She 
then  said  it  had  been  eaten.     "  Not 
here,  "  says  I ;  and  it  would  have 
j  taken  some  time  to  have    eaten   it 
I  anywhere    else.     At    th:it    time    I 
I  thought  maybe  some  of  the  negroes 
I  had    taken    the    key,    entered    the 
I  smoke-house,    and    carred    ofi*    the 
I  meat,  and  did  not  suspect  Liza  of 
i  making  way  with  it.     But  the  mys- 
I  tery  of  the  thing  caused  me  to  watch^ 
I  and  I  soon  discovered  that  Liza  had 
;  two  keys  to  the  milk    house.     The 


b 


84r 


TIIE  LIFE  OF  MICAJAII  AXhERSON. 


way  I  found  it  out  was  that  when 
she  would  be  passing  about,  with- 
out having  the  right  key,  she 
would  run  her  hand  in  her  pocket 
and  get  another  one  out,  with  which 
she  would  unlock  the  door  and  go 
in.  I  could  hardly  think  there  was 
anything  wrong,  though  it  ail  seemed 
a  little  strange  to  me. 

In  a  short  time  she  went  away 
one  Saturday  on  a  visit.  Usually 
when  she  went  off  she  left  out 
■enough  provisions  to  last  until  her 
return,  and  on  this  particular  eve- 
ning, between  sunset  and  dark,  I 
went  to  see  about  it.  I  went  to  the 
place  where  the  keys  always  hung, 
when  she  did  not  have  them  in  her 
pocket,  but  they  were  not  there.  I 
enquired  of  my  children  about  the 
smoke-house  key,  but  they  knew 
nothing  about  it,  unless  it  was  hang- 
ing up  in  the  house,  but  finding  it 
was  nowhere  in  the  house,  she  said 
that  her  mother  sometimes  put  the 
smoke-house  key  in  the  milk  house. 
I  took  a  key  and  vrent  and  unlocked 
the  milk-house,  and  there  I  found 
over  behind  abo  wl  of  milk  the  smoke- 
house key,  and  it  struck  me  right 
off  where  my  meat  went  to.  I  got 
so  mad  I  determined  to  let  the  key 
stay,  and  watch  the  door,  and  if 
anyone  came  to  go  in,  I  would  kill 
them,  and  I  went  and  took  a  seat  to 
w^atch  and  study  about  it.  After 
about  an  hour  it  came  to  me  that  I 
should  be  doing  wrong,  for  Liza  was 
the  cause  of  it  all.     So  I  went  and 

took  the  kcvs  and  carried  them  all 
in  the  house,  thinking  that  when 
she  found  them  moved,  she  would 


know  that  I  had  my  suspicions,  and 

that  it  would  alter  her. 

When  she  came  home  Sunday  af- 
ternoon,  I  got  near  the  milk-house, 
and  after  changing  her  clothes,  she 
went  to  the  milk-house  door,  and 
taking  the  little  extra  key  ou':  of 
her  pocket,  she  opened  the  door,  but 
not  finding  the  smoke-house  key, 
she  turned  and  passed  me,  and  as 
she  did,  I  looked  her  straight  in  the 
face,  and  she  turned  as  pale  as  a 
corpse.  She  went  in  the  house, 
took  the  key,  and  went  and  got 
meat  for  supper,  all  the  while  as 
pale  as  she  could  be ;  but  she  said 
not  a  word  to  me,  or  I  to  her  about 
it,  and  I  don't  know  how  long  it 
had  been  since  she  had  spoke  a 
pleasant  word  to  me. 

I  said  nothing  about  the  matter, 
but  I  never  missed  the  keys  from 
the  usual  place  any  more,  .nor  my 
meat  never  went  away  so  fast  after 
that.  The  winter  before  the  time  I 
am  speaking  about,  I  killed  and  put 
up  fourteen  thousand  pounds  of  as 
fine  pork  as  ever  was  raised  in  the 
county,  and  had  several  beeves  in 
the  fall.  I  never  sold  but  little 
over  twenty-five  hundred  pounds, 
and  though  I  had  only  twenty-seven 
in  family,  I  had  but  a  few  pieces  in 
my  smoke-house  at  the  end  of  the 
year. 

I  want  anyone  who  has  been  in 
the  habit  of  feeding  families,  to 
make  a  calculation  of  how  much 
meat  it  required  for  mine  of  twenty- 
seven  souls;  seven  thousand  pounds 
of  bacon  with  the  beeves  ought  to 
have  done  me,leaving  seven  thousand 


t:iie  life  of  MICAJAK  axdfesox. 


85 


to    sell,   and  bacon  that  year    was 
worth  twenty  cents. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  in  July,  to 

get  out  of  a  fuss,  I  went  off  to  mv 

son  Thomas  Anderson's.     Vv  hen  I 

got  home  it  was  getting  darkish,  and 

seeing  some  one  sitting  in  the  yard, 

I  asked  my   son,  who  came   to  take 

my  horse,   who  it  was,  and  he   told 

me  Robert  Ha,rt.     It  seemed  that 

^•hen  I  heard  that^  a  great  burden 

was  lifted  off  from  my  heart,  and  1 1 

hoped  to  the  Lord  that  his  coming! 

would  cause  Liza  to  do  better  than  ' 

she  had  been  doing  for  a  lono-  time. 


'just  a  little  grain,  and  so   she  went 
en  until  dinner  was  over. 


AVhen  we  went  in  to  eat  supper,  I 
found  her  barefooted  and  barelegged, 
with   her    dress    tucked   up  to  her 
knees,  and  that  hurt  my  feelings, 
for  she   had   shoes    and    stockings, 
and  she  ought  to  have  had  them  on. 
That  night  old  aunt  Polly  Pitt- 
man  made  out  to  get  down  to  our 
house  ;  and  Robert  Hart  sang  and 
prayed  for  us  that  night. 

In  the  morning,  Liza  arose  and 
went  about  getting  breakfast,  with- 
out a  sign  of  anything  on  her  feet, 
and  her  coat  tucked  up  as  high  as 
she  dared   to  raise  it.     She  killed 
some  chickens  after  breakfast,  and 
had  them  at  the  well  cleaning  them, 
and  in  stooping  about,    you   could 
see  just  as  high  up  her  clothes  as 
you  had   a  mind  to,  and  there  was 
Robert  Hart,  the  preacher.     It  hurt 
my  feelings.     I    was   ashamed  for 
her,  and  I  passed  by  where  she  was, 
and  said,  Liza,  do    pray    let  your 
coat  down  a  little  lower.     She  said 
not  a  word,  but  did  drop  her  dress 


'      After  eating  dinner,    Robert  and 

'  I  went  out   and  took  some  chairs 

I  under  the  trees  in    the  yard,    and 

:  afti3r  getting  her  table  cleared  away, 

I  Liza  she  came  out  to  where  we  were, 

with  old  Satan   in   her,  and  says  : 

"  I'll  come  and  set  down  with  you 

all  awhile  now,  if  I  am   allowed  to 

do  it.  "     Robert  Hart  observed  to 

her  she  could,  if  she  would  behave 

herself,  with  her  silver  slippers   on. 

.  She  sat  down   a  little  while,   when 

I  irp  she  jumps  and  off  she  goes. 

I      Mr.  Hart  then,  pretty  soon,  went 
'  off  to  John  W.  Johnson's.     He  had 
I  not  more  than  got  out  of  sight   be- 
fore she  began  her  fuss  again. 
In  the  course  of  the  week,  she  got 
j  so  high  that  she  moved  off  again, 
;  going  to  her    brother    Wesley'^s.— ^ 
I  While  she  was    there,    I  sent  her 
I  two  letters,  stating  in  them   as   we 
I  could  not  live  together,  I  wanted  to 
I  be  divorced,  but  she  said  she  would 
j  do  no  such   thing,    unless   I  would 
'  build  a  nice  house,  give   her  fifty 
'  acres  of  land,  four  barrels  of  corn, 
four   hundred  pounds    of  bacon,   a 
barrel  of  flour,  and  a  large  amount 

j  of  sugar  and  €offee;  a  great  quantity,! 

.  thought,  for  one  person  to  use,  as  I 
stated  in  one  of  my  letters  to  her. 
She  was  always  complaining  that 
I  never  gave  her  anything,  and 
made  this  an  excuse  for  the  way  in 
which  she  neglected  and  mistreated 
my  daughters,  but  it  was  no  excuse 

j  for  allowing  her  child  to  go  on  all 

!  sorts  of  nasty  talk  before  them,  as 


36 


TUH   LIFE    OF  JUCAJAIf  AXUFPcSOy. 


she  did,  -wiienever  she  got  a  chance. 
I^or  did  I  think  there  was  any  use 
in  my  getting  her  anything,  con- 
sidering tlie  things  she  had  from  the 
plantation  to  buy  with — butter,  tal- 
low, eggs,  cloth,  kc. 

And  I  did  not  dress  myself  fine 
enough  for  her,  and  she  came  right 
out  flat  and  said  she  had  married 
two  husbands,  Dut  both  together  did 
not  have  pride  enough  to  make  one 
decent  man.  I  thought  she  knew 
me  well  enoueh  before  she  married 
me   to  tell  how  much  pride  I  had. 

As  she  was  always  a  flinging  it 
in  my  teeth  that  I  got  her  nothing, 
I  said  to  her  one  day,  as  I  was  going 
to  Tarboro,  that  I  meant  to  get  her 
a  dress,  and  I  wanted  to  know  what 
she  thought  of  a  vrorsted  one  ?  And 
I  got  her  as  fine  a  dress  as  any  lady 
need  to  wear,  trimmings,  and  a 
shawl,  for  all  of  which  I  paid  thirty- 
five  dollars  and  some  cents.  I 
thought  I  would  try  her  with  these 
presents,  and  hoped  that  some  good 
would  come  of  them,  but  it  did  no 
good.  I  had  not  given  her  any- 
thing yet. 

In  awhile  after  I  got  the  fine 
dress,  she  said  she  wanted  to  get 
me  a  suit  of  yarn  clothes,  but  had 
no  wool.  I  said  I  had  no  money 
then,  but  should  have  in  a  few  days, 
and  I  would  get  her  some  wool.  In 
a  few  nights,  however,  she  had  some 
wool,  and  was  engaged  in  picking 
it  to  pieces  to  card.  She  said  she 
got  it  from  Lawrence  Lyons,  and 
paid  for  it  with  cloth  that  had  been 
grot  to  make  me  two  pair  of  breeches. 


!•     At  that  time  she  carried  off  cloth, 

I 

I  rags,  and  eggs  enough  to  get  her  a 

:  dress  and  one  for  her  daui^hter. — 

i  The  wool  she  put  in  my  clothes,  she 

I  carded  and  spun  at  ni^ht?,  and  she 

j  made  warp  of  the  bunch  of  cotton  I 

got  for  my  tv»'0  little  girls.     After 

getting  these   clothes,  she  took  the 

;  greatest  pride  in  hitting  me  in   the 

teeth  about  it,  saying  that  vrhen  she 

came  there,  I  was  naked;   and  she 

kept  on  in  this  vfay  until  I  swore  I 

never  would  put  them  on  my  back 

again,  and  as  she  vras  going   away, 

I  told  her  to  carry  them  with  her. 

I  She  said  she  would  not,  and  if  I  put 

I  them  on   the  cart,  she  would  throw 

I  them  out.     I  declared  they   should 

I  not  stay  in  my  house,  and  she  said 

I  give  them    to   John.     I    said   they 

were  not  mine,  and  I  told  my  little 

girl  to  tell  John  to  take  them  but  he 

said  he  did  not  want   them — that  I 

had  better  wer.ir  them  myself;  bat  I 

said  I'd  be  d d  if  I  did,  and  if 

;  he  did  not  take  them  away  I  should 

!  bury  them  in  the  branch,  the  woods, 

or  in  the  ditch,  for  they  should  not 

stay  about   me  ;   and  he  took  them 

and    carried    them    off.     Before    I 

would  have  put  them  clothes  on  any 

.  more,  I  would  have  wrapped  myself 

f  in  a  sheet  and  gone  to  Tarboro,  and 

I  bouf;ht  clothes,    after    I    had  been 

made  to  swear  about  them  as  I  had. 

She  left  me  but  one  pair  of  breeches, 

and  they  were  so  tight  that  I  called 

them  skin-flints,  and  but  one  w^hole 

shirt  to  my  back,' and  that  she  got 

just  before  she  left.  That  was  one 
thread  in  the  reed,  and  coarse 
enough  for  a  meal-bag.     And  there 


THE  LIFE    OF  MICAJAH  AXBERSOX. 


37 


was  enou!2;h  of  tha  cloth  when  it 
was  wove  for  another  shirt  for  me 
and  one  apiece  for  mj  boys,  for 
they  did  not  have  a  shirt  that  you 
couhl  have  told  what  they  Vv'ere 
made  of  but  one  piece,  and  that 
was  tacked  on,  not  sewed — -nor  a 
whole  pair  of  breeches  to  their 
nam'es. 

Yf  hen  she  was  about  to  leave  she 
put  out  the  fine  dress  I  had  bought 
for  her,  and  threw  it  on  i\\e  bed, 
and  told  Ann  to  take  it,  for  she 
would  never  wear  it  ac^ain.  I  told 
her  Ann  should  not  have  it,  for 
when  I  gave  anything  to  abody,  I 
gave  it  to  them,  and  they  were  wel- 
come to  it,  and  I  was  not  alwavs  a 
talking  about  it  ;  she  had  to  carry 
it  away  from  there,  and  I  took  it  and 
threw  it  in  her  trunk.  She  never 
said  anything  about  the  nine  dollar 
shawl — as  big  as  a  bed-spread 
nearly — that  I  bought  at  the  same 
time,  and  I  said  I  thought  she  kept 
that  back  to  wrap  herself  and  rich 
loafers  in  when  she  went  out  niiihts 
"bushwhacking"  of  it.  But  she 
sold  her  dress  and  bought  her  an- 
other, so  I  was  told,  with  what  she 
got  for  the  one  I  gave  her;  and 
had  she  got  for  it  what  I  gave,  it 
would  have  got  a  dress  for  her 
daughter  and  one  for  herself. 

She  was  a  great  housekeeper ; 
when  she  moved  the  loom  out 
of  the  kitchen,  she  stood  the  table 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  left 
everything  on  it  from  one  day's  end 
to  another,  and  the  cats  got  on  the 
table  every  night,  and  tore  the  ta- 
ble-cloth, and  gnawed,  and  scratch- 


ed, and  eat,and  mousled  the  victuals, 
until  nothing  was  fit  to  eat,  as  ray 
grandson  declared  when  he  found  a 
piece  of  meat  on  the  table  that  he 
had  seen  one  of  the  cats  draiijxiii"" 
round  a  good  part  of  the  morning. 
We  had  five  cats,  and  Liza  said  she 
they  were  tearing  up  all  the  table- 
cloths, and  she  wished  they  would. 

I  told  her  I  did  not  know  how 
she  could  expect  anythinsr  else,  for 
the  cats  were  not  to  blame  fot  eat- 
ing anything  they  could  get.  But  I 
reckon  she  killed  the  cats,  for  all  of 
them  but  one  were  found  dead 
round  about  the  garden. 

Not  long  before  she  left  she  went 
off  to  the  store  with  two  or  three 
pair  of  pants  and  a  web  of  cloth, 
with  Vi'hich  she  bought  her  lady  a 
dress  and  some  more  rigging,  but 
she  brought  back  one  pair  of  the 
pants  ;  and  the  dress  she  got  that 
day  was  not  fine  enough  for  her 
daughter,  and  she  took  it  herself. — ■ 
But  the  dau2:hter  had  to  have  a 
finer  one,  so  as  I  was  going  to  town 
one  day,  Liza  asked  if  she  might  go 
with  me,  and  I  told  her  she  could. 
She  took  along  with  her  a  quantity 
of  tallow,  some  butter  and  the  pair 
of  pants  she  had  not  sold,  with 
which  she  boufrht  another  dress  for 

o 

her  fine  lady,  a  pair  of  shoes,  and  a 
heap  of  fine  rigging,  but  not  the 
wrappings  of  a  finger  for  my  chil- 
dren, as  I  had  hoped  and  thought 
she  would,  as  she  had  never  given 
them  anything  from  the  time  she 
came  there ;  but  I  said  nothing 
about  it. 


38 


rEE  LIFE   OF  3110 AJAR  ANDEJtSOX. 


When  we  got  home,  her  brother 
and  his  wife  were  there  and  Liza 
got  after  Wesley's  wife  to  send  her 
some  help  to  make  up  the  fine  dress 
for  her  daughter,  and  Wesley's  wife 
sent  her  daua'hter,  Liza. 

My   boys   wanted   some   jackets 

made  by  Sunday  preaching,  and  in 

the  room  of  making  their  jackets, 

she  turns  in   on    the    drosses,    and 

never  touched  a  hand  to  the  jackets, 

the  time  Liza   Pittman    v/as    there 

helping   to    sew.     Mary   Vrilliford, 

the  pet  of  our    house,    in   all    this 

time   was   lying    and  sitting   about 

— never   so    much    as    turnini^   her 

hand  to  a  thing,  while   her   mother 

was  in  the   kitchen.     Liza    would, 

after  getting  breakfast  over,  go   in 

and  make  up  her  bed  and  clean  up 

her  room,  and  my  girls  would  make 

up  the  balance  of  the  beds  and  clean 

up  the  rest  of  the  house;  and  there 

was  that  strapping  Mary  Williford 

doing    nothing    in   the  world ;    and 

when  Liza  left,  their  jackets  had  not 

been  touched.      On    Sunday  morn- 

inor  tliat  this  dress  was   made  in  the 

week,  1  went  to  the  cow- pen  where 

Liza  was  milking,    and  told  her  to 

turn  the   cows  and  calves  together, 

for  she  had  milked  the  last  cow  for 

me  she  ever  should ;  and  she  blazed 

out  that  she  did  not  care,  for  it  only 

took  another  trouble  off  of  her.     I 

told  her  she  had  had  all  the  benefit, 

if  she  had  all  the  trouble,   for  my 

children  had  had   no  benefit  since 

there  she  had  been.     No  more  had 

she  ever  paid  old  aunt  Polly  Pitt- 
man  for  milking  for  her,  for  the  old 
lady  scid  so  just  before  she  died. 


When  she  was  milking,  she  and 
her  dauf^hter  would  aiO  and  stand  in 
the  cow-pen  while  my  chiklren  had 
to  go  through  the  de\v  and  drive  up 
the  cows,  and  when  they  asked 
Mary  Williford  to  go  with  them, 
she  wouM  not  ;  and  when  my  daugh- 
ters got  the  chills,  they  said  they 
believed  it  was  because  their  step- 
mother drove  them  through  the  dew 
so  much  after  the  cows.  One  of 
them  got  so  bad  I  had  to  send  for 
the  doctor  ;  and  I  told  them  if  they 
ever  got  up  ngain,  never  to  go 
throur^h  the  jrrass  and  weeds  after 
the  cows  again. 

Once  when  Wesley  Pittman's 
daughter  was  sick,  Liza  went  to 
stay  there  some,  and  as  my  girls 
were  picking  out  cotton,  Liza's 
daughter  had  to  cook.  And  one 
night  Liza  came  home  in  a  pet,  and 
my  grandson,  E-uffin,  who  was  about 
as  ready  for  a  fuss  as  she  was,  said 
at  the  table,  that  the  victuals  tasted 
like  they  had  turpentine  in  them. — 
Liza  bursted  out  that  she  had  staid 
there  and  done  mighty  nigh  as  long 
as  she  was  ao-oinn;  to. 

I  was  sitting  in  the  shed  door,  and 

I  told  Ruflin  if  he  did  not  shut  his 

mouth,  I  would  come  in  there   and 

stamp  him  ;  and  I  said  to  Liza  that 

if  I  lived  and  she  lived,  I  would  rid 

her  of  the  troubles  she  liad  on  my 

plantation,  for  I  had  stood  it  as  long 

as  I  could  and  as  long  as  I  would. 

And  she  out  with  her  old  song  that 

I  had  her  tnere  for  a   waiting   girl 

for  me  and  my  children,  and  I  told 
her  she  had  waited  on!me  about  as 
long  as  she  ever  would.     I  remind- 


TEE  LIFE   OF  MICAJAU  AXDEESOX. 


39 


ed  her  of  the  faithful  promises  she  she  was  pursuing,  and  hovr  I  wished 
had  made  that  she  would  divide  ^  that  she  could  see  it  as  plain  as  I 
with  my  poor  motherless  children,  |  and  others  saw  it.  She  said  she  did 
and  be  a  mother  to  them  as  I  could  .  nothing  wrong  to  anyone  or  any- 
prove  by  old  aunt  Polly  Pittman,  thing;  any  of  us  could  do  wrong  or 
and  she  need  not  deny  it.  And  I  let  it  alone,  but  she  let  all  wrono- 
asked  her  what  was  anybody's  word  things  alone.  I  told  her  she  was  by 
worth  who  falsified  their  promises,  this  as  she  was  by  saying  that  there 
She   denied  ever   makin.s;   me    any  \  was  no  appointed  time  to  die,  or  ap- 


pointed time  for  anything  else,  and 
I  says  if  you  are  right,  Liza,  you 


promises,    and  said  she  never   had 

done  anything  in  her  life  that  she 

was  ashamed  of,   and  I  declared  to    can  live  as  long  as  you  please,  and 

her  that  she  had  spoken  the   truth,  i  die  when  you  cret  ready,  and  if  your 

ft/  C5  •/    '  ft/ 

though  it  was  seldom  she  ever  did  i  doctrine  is  true,  we  have  no  use  for 
speak  it.  She  went  on  to  say  that  |  a  Saviour,  and  you  are  no  hard-shell 
she  and  her  child  had  no  more  than  !  Baptist,  but  a  free-wilier.  She  said 
when  she  came  here,  though  she  had  ,  I  had  boasted  thati  would  not  swap 
striven  ever  so  hard.  But  she  knew  \  chances  with  her,  and  I  re-affirmed 
better,  and  all  the  neighbors  knew  i  that  I  would  not ;  nor  would  I  with 
better,  as  I  told  her.  She  then  hit  |  anybody  else,  for  I  have  faith  and 
ne  in  the  teeth  about  writing  to  her  i  hope  that  I  have  been  changed  from 
ibout  a  divorce,  and  said  now  she  ;  nature  to  grace,  and  I  might  swap 
vas  willing  to  a  divorce,  but  I  was  j  it  away  and  get  nothing,  as  I  would 
aot.  I  says  if  you  are  willing  now,  |  do  if  I  swapped  with  you. 
it  shall  be  done.  Then  she  raged  '  About  a  fortnight"'  before  this 
out  that  the  devil  was  in  me— that  there  came  to  my  house  a  lousy 
the  devil  had  fooled  me  mighty  bad,  |  loafer,  by  the  name  of  James  Dor- 
but  I  told  her  she  was  the  one  the  :  man,  and  the  very  moment  Liza 
devil  had  fooled  ;  that  he  had  her  on  !  saw  him,  she  fell  in  love  with  him, 
the  back  track  then.  She  declared  ,  and  I  never  could  tell  which  loved 
that  she  was  not  like  other  people  ;  \  him  the  best,  she  or  her  daughter, 
that  she  had  never  done  anything  ;  He  came  about  a  couple  of  hours  by 
that  was  wrong  in  her  life,  and  I  sun  in  the  afternoon,  and  made  out 
says  you  must  have  been  born  per-  ;  that  he  was  agoing  about  at  work  on 
feet,  and  are  a  saint  from  Heaven,  |  clocks.  I  had  one  that  had  been 
and  then  you  have  none  of  old  |  stopped  a  long  time.  Some  of  the 
Adam's  seed  in  you  ;  but  1  am  de-  j  neighbors  had  told  him  about  it,  and 
ceived  if  you  are  not  as  much  struciv  [,.  wanted  to  go  to  work  on  it.  But 
with  it  as  anybody  I  ever  saw.  j  tokl  him  I  did  not  want  the  clock 

I  told  her  how  deeply  I  regretted  worked  on,  but  he  would  take  it 
her  conduct  ;  how  it  grieved  me  to  down  ;  took  it  all  to  pieces,  and 
find  her  bent  on  the  wicked  course    ruined  it,  as  he  had   done   all  the- 


40 


THE  LIFE   OF  2IWAJA1L  AXhEUSON. 


neifrbbor's  clocks  he  had   touched. 

o 

That  r.ight,  at  f^npper,  he  told 
Liza  v.'ho  he  was,  and  she  said  she 
had  heard  old  aunt  PoUv  Pittman 
speak  of  the  Dormans,  and  he  began 
to  tell  that  he  was  raised  over  there 
among  the  Mabrjs  ;  and  right 
straight  Liza  claimed  kin  with  him, 
and  it  was  "  cousin  James,"  with  her 
and  i\Iary  "Williford.  So  right  after 
supper,  the}^  cut  out  with  him  off  to 
old  aunt  Polly  Pittman's,  to  make 
lier  acquainted  with  him,  and  let 
her  know  that  one  of  her  relations 
had  come.  Bat  thej  never  came  in 
the  house  where  I  was.  The  next 
day  after  dinner,  the  daughter  took 
him  over  to  make  him  acquainted 
with  the  rest  of  his  kin.  But  he  was  a 
picture  for  anyone  to  look  at,  wa'n't 
he  though  ?  His  shirt  was  the  color 
of  Roanoke  mud,  as  stiff  as  it  could 
be,  and  rattled  the  same  as  if  it  had 
been  paper  ;  his  old  shoes  were  the 
color  of  a  fox  skin,  and  all  to  pieces 
at  that;  his  stockings  were  as  black 
as  they  could  be,  out  at  the  heel, 
and  toes  gone,  and  the  man  fairly 
stunk.  Instead  of  cousin'ncr  him, 
I  called  him,  in  my  mind,  "  stink- 
ing Jeems.  "  Liza  wanted  him  to 
pull  off  that  old  louse  case  of  a  shirt, 
and  put  on  one  of  mine,  but  he 
would  not,  and  it  was  well  he  did 
not,  and  let  me  know  it. 

This  newly  found  and  dearly  be- 
loved cousin  of  my  wife's  came  again 
the  following  Saturday  night,  and 
atter  supper  they  all  cut  out  again 
to  their  old  aunt  Polly  Pittman's. — 
Ke  began  to  show  his  great  exploits, 


dealing  with  the  devil  like  Liza  and 
her  daughter.  lie  would  take  a 
stick,  give  cnc  end  to  one  to  hold, 
and  the  other  to  somebody  else,  and 
be  would  put  a  ring  on  the  stick,  or 
take  it  off  and  they  holding  fast  to 
both  ends  of  the  stick.  He  wouhl 
take  a  piece  of  money,  (if  he  could 
get  one)  and  putting  it  in  a  tumbler 
of  water,  make  it  dance,  by  sing- 
ing to  it  and  patting  his  feet.  He 
told  them  he  could  take  a  chicken 
rooster,  cut  his  head  off,  clean  him, 
pui  him  in  a  pot  and  boil  him,  and 
take  him  out,  turn  him  loose  and  he 
would  crow. 

Liza  came  home  that  Saturday 
nio-ht  about  midnisjht,  easing  herself 
down  in  the  bed,  as  shough  she  was 
afraid  of  touching  me,  and  lay  down 
with  her  back  to  me,  without  saying 
a  word.  Cousin  James  he  got  up 
in  the  mornins:  and  took  himself  off 
down  to  old  aunt  Polly  Pittman's, 
where  the  lady  Mary  Williford  was. 

After  breakfast  awhile,  Fred. 
Whitehead  came  in,  my  two  little 
daughters  and  two  grand-daughters 
were  in  the  house,  and  the  lady, 
^lary,  sat  down  on  the  bed,  and  her 
cousin  James  beside  her.  Pretty 
soon  she  fell  ricjht  down  on  the  bed 
flat  of  her  back,  and  cousin  James 
he  fell  down  on  top  of  her,  with  that 
miserable  shirt  ohj  and  I  had  just 
as  lief  had  a  dooj  risht  out  of  a  dead 
horse  on  me  as  he,  with  that  stink- 
ing shirt. 

On  Monday,  Mary  Williford  told 
one  of  my  children  that  she  and  her 
cousin  James  Dorman   were   going 


THE  LIFE   OF  ^dlCAJAR  ANDERSON. 


41 


to  marrj  ;  that  she  loved  him  so 
she  could  not  sleep  for  thinking  of 

him,  and  that  he  was  coming  again 
the  next  Saturday  night  and  was 
going  to  sleep  in  her  bed,  for  if  no 
one  else  would  lie  with  him,  she 
would. 

In  the  meantime  Liza  had  gone 
off  to  the  store  and  got  some  stuff  to 
make  cousin  James  a  shirt,  and  on 
Saturday  evening  he  slipped  up  the 
back  way,  and  went  out  under  my 
gin-house  and  shedded  his  old  lousy 
skin,  and  took  the  nasty  thino;  and 
carried  it  to  old  aunt  Polly  Pitt- 
man's.  During  the  week,  while 
Liza  was  making  the  shirt,  one  of 
my  little  girls  asked  who  it  was  for, 
but  she  said  that  was  best  known  to 
herself. 

On  Thursday  night  following  this 
w^e  had  our  big  fuss  that  made  the 
separation  :  Insteai  of  sleeping 
with  me,  Liza,  as  I  found  out  after- 
wards, had  her  a  pallet  under  the 
bed  where  cousin  James  slept — right 
at  the  head  of  mine — in  the  next 
room.  She  thought  that  I  would 
think  she  was  staying  at  old  aunt 
Polly  Pittman's,  but  I  knew  she  was 
up  and  in  the  kitchen  too  early 
to  have  slept  there.  I  asked  my 
daughters  where  their  mother  slept. 
They  did  not  know,  but  asked  her ; 
she  said  that  was  best  known  to  her. 
She  asked  them  if  they  knew,  and 
they  said  they  did  not ;  and  she 
would  not  tell  them.  I  asked  the 
boys,  but  they  said  she  did  not 
sleep   up   stairs.     Feeling    certain 

that  she  did  not  go  out  of  the  house, 

6 


I  looked  under  the  bed,  and  I  found 
her  pallet  under  the  bed  where  Dor- 
man  lay.     At  first  it  struck  me  that 

she  got  under  there  to  eavesdrop  me  ; 
then  I  became  satisfied  from  her 
manner,  that  she  got  uiider  there  so 
she  could  creep  out  and  go  on  tho 
bed  to  her  James  Dorman.  I  took 
the  pallet  and  threw  it  under  my 
bed,  and  said  nothing  cibout  it. — • 
After  dinner,  I  gave  out  provisions 
to  last  my  children  until  Sunday 
night,  telling  them  I  was  going 
away  to  be  gone  until  Sunday  eve- 
ning. Liza  said  she  wished  I  would 
go  awaj  and  never  come  back  again. 
I  said  I  knew  that.  I  expected 
that  when  I  went  off  that  mornincr, 
that  I  might  not  come  back  before 
Sunday  evening,  but  I  returned 
about  an  hour  in  the  night,  Satur- 
day ;  and  when  I  got  there,  Liza 
had  her  cousin  James  in  my  room, 
and  she  and  her  daughter  were 
keeping  up  such  a  whickering  and 
whinnying  over  him,  that  I  could 
make  no  one  hear  me  until  I  had 
called  four  or  five  times. 

As  I  went  in,  who  should  jump 
out  first  but  James  Dorman,  and 
then  Liza  and  her  daughter  followed. 
She  could  stay  in  my  room  with 
James  Dorman,  but  not  with  me. — 
They  all  put  off  to  old  aunt  Polly 
Pittman's  again. 

Next  morning,  which  was  Sun- 
day, she  came  home,  leaving  her 
daughter  and  ccusin  James  at  old 
aunt  Polly's.  I  went  in  to  break- 
fast after  awhile,  saying  as  I  went 
in,  "  after  all  the  rest  of  the  dogs, 


42 


TUB  LIFE  OF  211CAJAJI  AXDFESOK 


in  comes  old  Lubj.  "  Liza  turned 
her  back  to  mc  as  I  went  in  and 
stood  there  in  her  old  place  until  I 
■went  out  again.  Iler  daughter  had 
come  home,  and  was  fixed  up  to  go 
off  among  her  kindred  to  show  them  i 
her  cousin  James  Dorman,  now  \ 
that  the  lice  were  taken  off  of  him. 
Liza  had  to  fix  up  a  lie  to  get  my 
two  little  girls  off  with  them  ;  and 
"when  the  largest  of  my  children 
asked  me  if  they  might  go  to  their 
sister  Lucy's,  I  asked  who  was  going 
to  get  dinner,  and  she  said  mother 
says  she  will  get  dinner,  and  I  let 
them  go.  I  said  I  thought  her 
mother  had  quit  doing  anything,she 
said  ^'no,  she  helps  me  cook.  " 

So  they  went  off,  but  never 
stopped  at  their  sisters,  but  kept  on 
to  Wesley  Pittman's  instead.  The 
lady  Mary,  in  the  room  of  going 
through  the  field,  the  usual  foot 
way,  Yrent  round  through  the  woods 
along  the  cut  path. 

When  they  came  back,   I  asked 

Ann    why    they   did    not   stop    at 

Lucy's  ?     Sbe  said  that  her  mother 

said  they  must   go    on  with  Mary 

Williford  to  Wesley's  ;   that  if  any 

body  saw  Mary  and  James  Dorman 

going  alone,  they  would  talk  about 

it.     But  my  grand-daughter   came 

back,  and  said  that   Liza   tried   to 

get  her  off  to  her  uncle  Wesley's, 

but  they  talked  about  me  so  bad  she 

got  mad   and   would   not   go  with 

them  ;    that    she  despised  them  in 

her  sight.     I  asked  her  what  they 

said.     She  told  me  that  x\[a,i'y  "Willi- 

ford  told  James    Dorman    a   great 
mess,  how  I  had  mistreated  her  and 


her  mother,  and  James  he  said  if  he 
had  a  step-mother  or  a  step-father 
like  that,  he  would  knock  their 
heads  off;  and  she  said  if  I  did  not 
believe  her,  to  go  and  ask  her  grand- 
mother. I  asked  her  grand-mother, 
and  she  said  that  he  did  say  it. — 
Then  I  said,  I'll  be  d doireed  if 


CO 


they  ever  come  on  my  plantation 
again,  if  I  don't  kill  James  Dorman, 
sure ;  and  I'll  whip  Liza  till  she 
can't  stand.  I  told  old  aunt  Polly 
to  tell  her  that  if  she  was  ixoinor  [q 
sign  that  instrument  of  writing,  as 
she  promised,  she  might  go  off  at 
once  and  find  a  home  for  herself, 
and  be  back  to  my  house  on  Mon- 
day, as  I  would  have  the  documents 
all  ready  for  signing  by    Tuesday. 

!Now  for  a  few  words  morCf  sug- 
gested by  that  pallet.  I  first  thought 
they  would  return  that  Sunday 
night,  but  somehow  Liza  had  got 
wind  of  my  expressed  intention  to 
kill  Dorman,  and  "  wear  "  her  girl 
out,  and  they  came  not ;  and  it's 
well  enough  they  didn't,  for  I  took 
my  double-barreled  gun,  loaded 
both  barrels,  and  took  a  position 
where  I  knew  they  would  pass  in 
returning,  resolved  at  the  moment, 
that  if  Dorman  put  his  foot  over  the 
fence,  I  would  shoot  him  down; 
and  as  for  Liza  and  her  girl,  I 
meant  to  whip  them  as  long  as  they 
could  stand  the  punishment. 

One  night,  about  a  week  before 
she  went  away,  Liza  came  into  the 
room  where  I  lay,  undressed  and 
got  in  bed.  When  she  was  fairly 
in,  I  raised  my  right  arm  and  threw 
it  over  her ;  and  as  I  did  so,    she 


THE  LIFE  OF  MICAJAK  AKDERSOX. 


43 


suddenly  jumped   up    in    bed,   and 
began  to  reel  and  catch  her  breath. 
I  spoke  to  her  and  asked  her   what 
the  matter  was.     As  she  made  me 
no   answer,  I  took  hold  of  her,  led 
her  to  the  fire-place  and  put    her 
down  by  the  fire.     I  then  spoke  to 
her  again,  saying,   "  Liza,    v/hat   in  \ 
the  name  of  God  is  the  matter  with 
yon  ?  "     She   replied  that  she  was 
dying,     I  begged  her  not    to  talk 
that  way,  as  it  hurt   my  feelings, 
but    she    still    protested    she    was 
dying.     I   immediately     caUed   up 
one  of  my  sons  and  bade  him  go  for 
Dr.  Strickland  as  fast  as  his  horse  j 
oould  carry  him.     In  the  meantime 
I  bathed  her  with  camphor  and  pain- 
killer, and  administered  some  of  the 
latter  internally.     In  a  very  short 
time  the  doctor  came.     He  examin- 
ed  her   and    prescribed    something 
which  he  left  in  a  vial.     I  think  the  i 
vial  held  about  four  table-spoonfuls.  •. 
On  the  third  day  after  this,  the  doc- ! 
tor    again    visited   my    house,   this  ; 
time  to  see  my  daughter,   vrho  wr.3  | 
very  sick.     The  doctor  and  I  were  ; 
•sitting  in  the  room  with  my  daugh- ; 
ter,  when  Eliza  came  in  and  handed  | 
the  doctor  the  vial  of  medicine  he 
had    prescribed   for    herself   three  [ 
days  before,  and  said,  '■'  Here,  doc- ' 
tor,  take  this    vial   of  stuff.  "     He  ; 
asked  her  if  she  had  taken   any   of 
it.     She  replied  that  she   had  once 
or  twice.     He  enquired  whether  it 
did  her  any  good,  and  she  replied 
that  she  did  not  know,  but  anyway 
she  wanted  him  to  take  it  back,  as 
it  wouJd  be  to  pay  for.     But  the 
dector  told  her  to  keep  it  and  take 


it,' and  I  suppose  it  did  her  good 
for  she  carried  it  with  her  when  she 
left  me.  After  that.  Dr.  Strickland 
told  three  or  four  persons  that  my 
wife  was  causing  me  to  lead  a  very 
wretched  life,  and  that  he  was  very 
sorry  for  me,  because  I  was  "  a  fine 
old  gentleman.  " 

After  advising  Liza   of  the  in- 
strument that  I  desired  her  to  sign, 
she  went  ofi"   and   remained   away 
from  me  seventeen  days.     In   this 
time  old  aunt  Polly  Pittman  died. — 
After  old  aunt  Polly's   death,  there 
were  found  under  her  bed  three  or 
four  armfuls  of  things    that    Liza 
and  her   daughter  had  toted    over 
there  from  my  house.     And  Ruffia 
said  that  the  things  fo'jnd  under  the 
bed  were  not  all  they    had  taken, 
for  Liza  had  also  carried  off  a  bas- 
ket of  blue  cotton.     L^pon  this,  I 
went  right  off  to  see  Betsey  Pitt- 
man  about  the   blue    cotton.     She 
said  the  children  told  her  that  Liza 
had  carried  a  basket  of  cotton  there 
on  Sunday  evening,and  put  it  under 
her  bed,  but  as  she  was  not  there  at 
the  time,  I  ought  not  to  blame   her 
about  it.     I   didn't  tell  her   at  the 
time  whether  I  blamed    her  or  not, 
but  from  what  I   am  now  going  to 
say,   I  reckon   she    can   guess  my 
opinion  of  her  :     She  had  that  cot- 
ton at  her  house  ;  she  never  told  me 
it  was  there,  she  therefore  concealed 
it  from  me   as  she  had  other  rob- 
beries of  Liza's.     She  was   a  con- 
cealer, and  in  my  opinion,  there's 
no   difference  between  a  concealer 
and  a   thief.     As  to  Wesley  Pitt- 
man    and  his  family,  I  attach   no 


44 


TEE  lifj:  of  micajah  AXDznsoy 


blame  to  them  on  account  of  Liza's 
conduct,  for  I  believe  they  tried  as 
hard  as  I  did  to  check  her  in  her 
villainous  career. 

Now  for  what  transpired  during 
her  seventeen  days'  absence.  After 
she  had  been  gone  many  days,  I  be- 
came so  angry  about  her  conduct 
generally,  that  I  determined  to  lock 
my  house  against  her,  and  that  she 
should  never  enter  it  again,  unless  I 
was  present  to  watch  her.  I  did 
not  intend  to  let  her  rob  me  and  my 
poor  motherless  children  any  longer. 

On  Saturday,  when  I  went  to 
Whitaker's  turn-out,  where  I  ad- 
vertised her,  I  stopped  at  the  gate 
of  Betsey  Fountain,  my  wife's  sis- 
ter, and  called  her  to  me.  AVhen 
she  came,  I  asked  if  she  knew  any-, 
thing  of  Liz  1 ;  she  replied  in  a  very 
angry  manner  that  she  was  there, 
and  said  she  had  heard  that  I  had 
been  talkins^  a  sfreat  deal  about  her. 
I  told  her  I  had  said  very  much 
about  her,  but  nothing  that  was  not 
strictly  true.  I  furcher  told  her 
that  her  sister  was  a  thief  and  a 
robber,  and  said  no  more. 

The  next  day,  Sunday,  Liza  went 
to  Wesley  Pittman's.  Two  of  my 
grand-children  were  over  there  that 
day,  and  when  they  came  home  they 
told  me  who  they  had  seen.  I  en- 
quired if  they  asked  Liza  when  she 
was  coming  home.  They  said  Liza 
told  them  that  she  was  coming  by 
home.  I  enquired  who  was  with 
her,  and  they  said  Gus  Parks.  I 
took  it  for  granted  that   she   was 

coming  by  that  evening,  so  taking  a 
chair  and  my   double-barreled   gun 


I  sought  the  shade  of  one  of  the 
oaks,  about  eight  steps  distant  from 
ft'here  I  supposed  they  would  drive 
up  to,  and  waited  events.  My  gun 
contained  the  very  same  charge  I 
put  in  it  to  sho^t  Dorman  with,  and 
I  was  r3Solved  that  when  Parks 
drove  up  to  forewarn  him  as  to  what 
the  consequences  would  be,  in  the 
event  he  attempted  to  carry  my 
wife  from  ray  premises,  and  then  if 
he  did  attempt  to  take  her  off,  to 
kill  him.  I  never  was  so  angry  in 
all  my  life.  Thank  the  Lord  they 
didn't  come  that  night.  But  the 
next  morning,  Liza  and  Parks  come 
walking  up  to  the  gate,  which  is. 
about  three  hundred  yards  from  my 
house.  Upon  reaching  the  gate, 
Parks  stopped,  but  she  came  on  to- 
wards the  house,  and  just  before 
reaching  it,  halted  and  screamed  out, 
*'I  have  come,  ready  to  do  whatever 
we  are  sjoinn;  to  do.  "  I  then  in- 
vited  her  into  the  house  to  the  fire. 
She  was  bloated,  and  I  told  her 
that  she  looked  like  a  stuffed  frog, 
swollen  up  as  she  was  with  the  devil 
in  her.  I  then  called  for  one  of 
the  boys  and  told  him  to  go  for  La- 
fayette Legget  to  do  the  writing  for 
us.  Eliza  here  spoke  up  and  said 
"  that  Gus  Parks  was  out  at  the 
gate ;  that  he  could  write,  and  if  he 
wasn't  too  big  a  loafer  to  be  allowed 

in  the  house,  he  would  do  all  the 
writing  that  was  necessary."  I  told 
her  that  I  didn't  send  for  Gus 
Parks  to  do  any  business  for  me, 
and  that  so  far  as  I  was  concerned, 
he  might  remain  at  the  gate. 

She  said  the   reason  she  had  not 
come  back  home    sooner,    was    be- 


THE  LIFE   OF  MICAJAH  AXDEESOy 


45 


cause    when    she    got    there,    Gus 
Park's    wife  was   dying,    and   after 
she  was  dead,  her  sister  Betsey  und 
Wesley  Fountain  were  taken  down 
sick,  and  she   remained  to    wa't   on  i 
them.     I  then  said  to  her,    •'  Sup- 
pose I   had  been   down    sick,    who  i 
was  here  to    wait   on    me?"     She! 
made  no    reply,  and  I  observed  to 
her  that  she  had  not  half  so    much  i 
respect  for  me  as  she  had  for  my  | 
old  dog.     I  further  remarked  thiit  I 
I  had  intended  to   give  her  a  good 
whipping  when    she    returned,   but 
was     out    of    that    notion    now.     I  \ 
rather  thousjht  she  would  ask  what  ; 
had  put  me  out  of  this  notion,  but  j 
she  didn't.     I   told   her    there   was 
one  thing  I  wished  her  to  do,  name- 
ly :  when  she  went   to    l]er   church 
again  to  have  my  name  taken  from 
the    church    books,    and    substitute 
"whatever  name  she  wanted.  I  didn't 
"want  her  to  go  there  in  my  name 
any  longer,  for  if  she   was  right  I 
was  wrong,  and  vice   vei^sa ;  but  I 
was  just    as    sure    that    there  was 
wrong  in  Liza  as  that  there  was  a 
God  in  Heaven,  and   I  prayed    to 
the  Lord,  in  her  presence,  that  she 
might  see  the  sin  in  her  sinful   self 
before  it  was  too  late. 

In  a  little  while    we   separated, 
and  now,  before   God,    who  knows  ! 
the  truth  in  our  hearts,  I  would  not 
have   had   the  separation   to  occur 
for  ten  thousand  worlds  like  this. 

Time  and  again,   before  she   left 

me,  I  had   determined  to  go  to  the 

church  and  narrate  my  troubles,  but 
as  often  would  my  heart?  fail  me. — 
The   last  time  she  went  to   meetins: 


from  my  house,  I  was  almost  per- 
suaded to  go  with  her,  and  acquaint 
the  church  wich  her  wicked  con- 
duct, but  somehow  my  resolution 
failed  me,  and  I  didn't  go  that  time. 
However,  I  did  go  finally.  When 
1  went,  I  informed  the  church  that 
my  wife  had  never  treated  me  as  a 
wife  ousiht  to  have  treated  her  bus- 
band.  When  I  made  this  state- 
ment ill  the  church,  my  wife  got  up 
to  leave,  I  suppose,  but  some  one 
caught  hold  of  her  and  kept  her  in 
the  church.  In  a  short  time  after 
this,  I  saw  the  old  man  Jack-y 
Stamps,  and  narrated  to  him  some 
of  the  difficulties  between  Liza  and 
myself,  and  he  advised  me  to  see 
her  and  have  a  talk  with  her.  Fol- 
lowing his  advice,  I  called  at  Wes- 
ley Fountain's,  where  she  lived,  to 
see  her.  I  first  saw  Betsey  Foun** 
tain  and  told  ter  to  tell  Liza  that  I 
had  come  to  have  a  talk  with  her. 
In  a  few  minutes  she  came  to  me. 
I  spoke  to  her  in  the  most  friendly 
manner  in  the  world,  but  she,  on 
her  part,  barel}^  took  hold  ot  my 
hand.  Her  coldness  so  much 
affected  me  that  I  could  not,  for  my 
life,  keep  from  crying,  and  as  the 
tears  coursed  down  my  furrowed 
cheeks,  1  said  to  her,  "  Liza,  Lord 
bless  your  poor  soul, — Lord  bless 
your  poor  soul,  Liza.  ''  I  then  told 
her  that  I  had  called  for  a  friendly 
chat  and  not  for  a  quarrel.  I  told 
her  also  that  the  doors  of  my  house 
were  open  to  her  whenever  she 
choose  to  return.  To  this,  she  re- 
plied, in  a  loud  angry  manner,  that 
she  would  never  live  with  me  anoth- 


46 


TIlJ^  LIFE   OF  2IICAJAU  AXDFBSOX. 


er  day  of  her  life,  because  I  had 
been  saying  hard  tilings  about  her. 
She  said  that  I  had  accused  her  of 
following  Jiin  Dorman  off.  I  re- 
plied that  if  she  didn't  follow  Jim 
Dorman,  she  vfent  off  with  him  to 
the  same  place  and  by  the  same 
road.  I  then  asked  her  hovv'  many 
shirts  she  had  ever  washed  for  me. 
She  replied  that  she  had  w^ashed 
many  a  one.  I  exclaimed,  *'  What 
a  pity  'tis,  Liza,    that  you  will  tell 

such  1 fibs.  "     I  said  to  her  that 

when  she  left  me,  she  turned  her 
back  on  the  best  friend  she  ever  had 
in  her  life.  She  proudly  retorted 
that  I  was  not  the  richest  man  in 
the  world;  that  she  had  a  man  to 
stand  to  her  back  who  had  more 
money  than  I  ever  had.  I  replied 
that  if  she  couldn't  talk  to  me  in 
peace  and  friendship,  just  as  a  wife 
oufrht  to  talk  to  her  husband,  I 
frished  her  never  to  speak  to  me 
airain.  Here  our  conversation  ended. 
I  will  now  relate  somethins:  about 
an  interview  I  had  with  Mr.  John 
Purvis,  on  the  fourth  Sunday  in 
April,  at  Cotton's  meeting-house. 
After  a  little  joking  and  bantering 
between  us,  Purvis  observed  that 
some  people  he  knew  reminded  him 
pf  a  certain  gentleman's  dog.  The 
gentleman  was  fond  of  bathing,  and 
frequently  when  going  into  the 
water,  w'ould  try  to  coax  his  dog  in 
with  him  ;  but  instead  of  following 
his  master,  this  perverse  canine 
would  generally  remain  on  the  banks 
of  the  water,  barking  and  howling 
for  some  time,  and  maybe  at  last — 
go  in.     Ju-^  so  with  certain  human 


canines  in  regard  to  the  church. — 
They  stand  off  for  a  long  time,  and 
at  last,  perhaps,  go  in.  To  this  I 
replied  that  as  for  myself,  I  had 
been  kept  out  of  the  still  waters  of 
the  church  the  past  six  years  by  a 
snapping  slut  ;  bat  that  the  wicked 
creature  had  not  deprived  me  of  my 
faith  in  the  Lord,  who  was  the  foun- 
tain of  livinn;  waters. 

Now  I  must  say  soraethin;:  as  to 
my  treatment  at  the  hands  of  the 
church.  In  the  lifetime  of  my 
second  wife,  long  before  I  married 
Liza,  I  had  been  deeply  concerned 
about  the  salvation  of  my  poor  soul, 
and  felt  the  same  concern  up  to  the 
time  of  my  marriage  with  Liza. — 
When  that  event  occurred,  I  verily 
believed  that  I  had  secured  a  help- 
meet both  as  to  worldly  andspiritual 
concerns,  but  the  sequal  proves  that 
I  was  fearfallv  mistaken. 

But  to  the  church.  Well,  I  went 
there  and  gave  in  my  experience, 
but  without  avail,  being  rejected  on 
account  of  that  deceitful  and  des- 
perately wicked  woman.  To-day  I 
stand  precisely  w*here  I  did  when  I 
was  rejected  by  the  church.  Poor, 
wretched,  sinful  Liza  is  afloat  in  the 
world,  and  never  thinks  of  attend- 
ing church  ;  and  I  am  not  permitted 
to  attend,  and  all  on  her  account. 
Maj  the  God  of  all  grace,  for 
Christ's  sake,  pardon  and  forgive  us 
all  for  our  many  misdeeds,  is  my 
humble  and  heartfelt  prayer. 

I  will  now  make  some  observa- 
tions on  Liza's  conduct  after  she 
left  me  :  When  she  left  my  house, 
she  went  first  to  the  neighborhood 


THE  LIFE   OF  MICAJAH  AXBEESOX, 


47 


that  she  had  frequently  visited  be- 
fore I  married  her,  and  lived  there 
about  twelve  months.     On  the  eve 
of  her  departure   thence,  she    told 
some  of  her  neighbors  that  she  was  ; 
going  away  in   order   to  get   out  of  i 
hearing  of  me.     And    here  I    must  I 
remark,  with  much  heartfelt  reluc-  i 
tance,  that  when  she  left  there,  she  j 
took  all  ot  her  meanness  with  her. 
She  has  forsaken  her  church,   or  I  I 
suppose  she  has,  as  I  am  informed  I 
that  she    has   not  been  there  since  | 
last  August.     She   couldn't  go    to 
meeting,  but  could  go  up  to  Rocky 
Mount,  join  the  Union  League,  and 
put  herself  in  the  keeping  of  Spen- 
cer Fountain,  chief  cook  and  botile- 
washer,  head  and  tail  of  the  league 
in  that  section.     And,  by  the  way. 
Fountain  makes  a  good  thing  of  his 
connection  with  the  league.     I  hear 
that  he  gets  fifty  cents  a  month  from 
each  colored  member  of  his  league, 
which,  he  says,  is  necessary  to   de- 
fray the  expenses    of  burying   the 
poor,  and  so  forth.     I    thank   the 
Lord  that  some  of  the  colored  peo- 
ple are  beginning  to  find  out  this  old 
wolf  in  sheep's    clothing.     As   for 
Liza,  she   has  found  a   master   and 
mistress    in    this  man  Fountain. — 
Now  she  can  "cook  and  do,  "  and 
they  do  say  she  can  even  wash,  too. 
Methinks    she  acquired   the    latter 

accomplishment  during  her  manipu- 
lations of  her  cousin  Jim  Dorman's 
•  lousy  shirt.  Most  of  Fountain's 
visitors  are  negroes  ;  wherefore 
Liza's  social  enjoyments  must  be  pe- 
culiarly pleasing  to  herself,  for  she 
always  had  a  hankering  for  colored 
folks.     In  the  life-time  of  her  first 


husband,  who  was  brother  to  Spen- 
cer Fountain,  Liza  and  her  husband 
lived  with  Spencer  for  a  season, 
and  of  course  had  the  best  oppor- 
tunities for  finding  out  the  charac- 
ter of  this  great  leaguer  ;  and  I  have 
heard  her  say  that  he  cheated  his 
own  brother  out  of  a  whole  year's 
work  and  fifry  dollars,  too,  which  he 
had  loaned  him.  Her  statement 
may  be  true,  or  it  may  not  be  true  ; 
the  fact  is  there's  no  telling  any- 
thing in  the  world  about  it,  lor  be- 
twixt Liza  snd  Spencer  Fountain, 
there's  precious  little  difference,  and 
I  should  say  it  is  pull  Dick,  pull 
devil  with  them,  as  to  which  is  the 
meanest,  for  they  both  belong  to 
the  L'nion  League,  which  evidently 
comes  from  the  devil ;  and  what 
comes  from  his  satanic  majesty  must 
at  some  time  return  to  that  indi- 
vidual. 

I  have  now  done.  In  this  book  I 
have  been  compelled  to  make  known 
many  things  I  could  have  wished  to 
keep  within  the  sacred  precincts  of 
my  family  circle,  but  no.  other 
course  has  been  left  me,  and  repeat-* 
ins;  the  assertion  that  I  have  not 

been  moved  to  this  by  any  other 
feeling  than  a  deep  sense  of  justice 
to  myself  and  children,  I  give  this 
much  of  my  life's  history  to  the  pub- 
lic, praying  the  indulgence  of  men 
wherein  I  have  overstepped  the 
bounds  of  propriety  ;  and  freely  ac- 
knowledging the  many  errors  and 
sins  of  my  life,  I  rest  my  case  with 


justice,   and 


resign 


myself   to  my 


i  God,  -who  must  at  last  judge  and  re- 
ward me  according  to  my  deeds  and 
'  deserts. 

1  THE    END. 


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